A Collection of Short Stories
Sabella Dunne
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Published by Sabella Dunne at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 Sabella Dunne
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4658-5059-1
DEDICATION
To all of the people for whom I had these stories in mind, and even more to those for whom I didn’t.
These are for you.
An Introduction
If you are reading these words, then know that they are for you and for you alone.
You may think that I’m talking to another person, perhaps someone I have known well and for many years, maybe you are such a person, but even if you are not, especially if you are not, then know this; everything I write now is for you.
You are the person for whom this book is intended, not a grand unified you, but you the individual, the person here who can see these words, you who can take them in, you who can love them and make them your own.
Know that I love you, for who you are, your eyes are wonderful and the world is a better place when you laugh. You might think I’m speaking of another, of the person next to you, but I’m not. I mean you.
Who else would I possibly mean? Who else in the world is more wonderful than you are, living in this moment right here and right now? You have picked up a book, and you have made it live and breathe by looking at these words and making them mean something.
You mean something. To me. To the world. To this book.
Having said that, don’t forget that I am not the only person who loves you, that would be selfish of me beyond words. You mean so much, to so many people.
You are beautiful.
As you read these words and perhaps as you get lost in the stories and the people involved in them, know that this is your story.
It is just for you.
All The Kings Men
There was a place I used to go to when I was little, it was fun, at the time and I still enjoy it now. It was in an open field, owned by a wonderful woman who decided that such treasures were best kept open to the public and not left to disappear into obscurity like so many national treasures do, left forgotten or undiscovered.
It was the stories of this place that I loved the most, the history and the legends.
The place is near a town called Rollright, deep in the heart of the English countryside, and there lay the famous stones huddled in a circle. They are the knights of old. Across the road that now cut the old field is the King Stone, tall and proud for all to see cresting the hill to look upon the valley below, and a long way behind these men and their King are the Whispering Knights the traitors to the crown.
The stones have been there longer than I care to work out, the stories date back hundreds of years, the stones themselves thousands, long before my family lived in the area.
My grandfather used to play there as a small boy, sometimes I like to think that I can still see him there, amongst the trees and the history. My mother goes there and thinks of her father. I go and I think of them both.
Needless to say I have been there a great many times. I have gone there with friends and with family. Sometimes I count the stones as best as I can, for though some claim that there are seventy seven stones I prefer to believe the story that they are uncountable, and that whosoever can count the stones in the circle three times over and arrive at the same number each time shall be granted their hearts desire.
Sometimes I travel to those who betrayed their King and speculate as to whether or not the sounds I hear are the left over noises of them still plotting or whether they are complaining about people like me trying to listen to them so intently. Sometimes I avoid the cars and cross the road to sit with the King and wonder if he appreciates my council, or whether he would instead like a day talking of the mundane and not the majestic.
But often I shall just sit amongst them and let them whisper to me their story. This is what I hear.
~*~
Once upon a time, for that is how all great stories begin, there was a man who sought to become king. He was a good man and a wise man, but he didn’t always show it.
Like so many who know that they are born for greatness, he let himself think that everything he did was great, or at least had the potential to be great. With some men he kept a close council, but others he held at a distance. There seemed, upon the surface of it, no reason as to why he would hold some of his men so dear and treat others with such distrust, but he was a superstitious and suspicious man who had sought out the knowledge of a witch to help him on his path to greatness.
“They will betray you.” She said conjuring forth the images of some of the knights, even the one he loved most of all, his own brother. From that point forward he trusted them no more little knowing that the less he trusted the knights the witch spoke of, the more they grew embittered by his treatment of them and began to think him an unfit leader.
The King still loved his knights dearly, they were his family and those whom he knew would put their lives on the line to protect him, but if he were to become the king of the whole of Albion, the land of legend, then he would have to only hold those close to him whom he could rely on.
It was told throughout the land that the knights were well trained. They moved so fast that it was impossible to count them. They seemed like a thousand men with an army that was less than a hundred strong, but it did not matter, they were fierce and they were brave. In the name of their King they took no prisoners and with a ruthless efficiency they tore down the opposing forces who vied for his crown.
He thought long and hard about the neighbouring kingdoms in this great land. He would control all of them one day, of that he was certain, but he knew the price he would have to pay in order to secure his reign. There would be many people who would suffer in order for him to control the other nations. People would die at the hands of their own kings and people would sacrifice themselves before the might of his army to stop change from coming.
He was a kind person underneath the surface, but in this land, in this time, it was the might of a person that controlled their destiny and not their heart and emotions. Though he knew the terrible things that might be done in order to lead all the nations into a time of prosperity and joy, he was willing to do them without a mercy. So certain was he that he would be the one to unite the Albion of prophesy that he could do little else but sigh and accept the fate that would befall many at his hands, but he worried about it every day. “This is the burden of the King,” he would sigh, and the knights would agree.
~*~
There was one knight who held the King’s ear above all else. He was a young man, but smart and ambitious. Though he did not wish for bloodshed to befall any nation, he had less compunction over the deeds that must be done than his dear King did. He loved his King and knew that all others would love him as dearly if they only would acknowledge him as their great leader.
He was a beautiful young man, with a charm and character that made him able to bend the ear of many, but he did not seek to abuse his ability. However, the King was one person whom he believed needed to hear his opinions and words. The King had to be strong and wise and he believed firmly that he was just the person to help him.
The King was happy to listen to his friend; he indulged the conversations of the young knight more than he would any courtesan in the country because he knew that the boy was of pure and honest intent. They shared talk of mutual interests and shared dreams of the Albion of the future. The young boy suggested the ways that The King could rule the lands so as to be fair to those who were loyal to him and planted ideas of what it might be to live forever in these lands to rule with wisdom and courage. Occasionally he spoke of the witch would was said to prophesise the creation of Albion and asking for her assistance in conquering nearby lands.
No, the young man didn’t seek to abuse his position of power and influence, but he did anyway.
~*~
Time past and the King grew cold. He was so blinded by visions of the great future that he would bring to all the world that he had started to forget the reason he had been worried and apprehensive about claiming the nearby lands as his own. The thought of the things that would need to be done in order to secure those places as his own had disappeared from his mind like a dream sifting all too quickly through his fingers.
Sometimes he would remember again. He would remember that there was a reason his visions of the future weren’t as simple as he had thought them to be, but one word from the young knight, or one glance over the horizon at the unclaimed lands beyond stopped those thoughts from once again occupying his mind.
All that mattered to him was the end result. It no longer mattered how he obtained it; the end justified the means.
Before he would warn his knights to be kind and merciful. He would implore them to be a credit to their training and their discipline as they fought. Never killing when they could simply immobilise, never harming where they could persuade, never persuading when they could prevent. The Kings skills as a diplomat had earned him his crown just as much as his army had, if not more. Any fool could swing around a sword, he used to insist, but for some reason he cared less and less and thought on the trials of others less in turn.
But now he had changed his tone, the message was new and read clearly, ‘by any means necessary’.
Many of the other knights followed their King as they always had, but some of them grew worried. They knew this not to be the same King that had led them to victory and greatness; this was a King who would lead them to disaster.
As the group prepared for their charge down the hill in a handful of sunrises the Whispering Knights began to do just that, whisper, about the futures and safety and control, or lack thereof. It wasn’t betraying their King; they insisted to themselves, it was protecting all others.
~*~
The Prince, the dear brother to the King, was the one who had called the Knights together to speak about the situation they found themselves in. He loved his brother more than any man, but he knew full well what grave horrors could befall them all when the sun rose.
He believed that he above all others was the person who had the right to tell the King that enough was enough. He had the right over everyone. Including that young man his brother thought so highly of. Especially over him.
He would never admit that he was ruled even in part by jealously. In his mind he was fighting for a good cause and a stable future for all of the people in his country. His mind said one thing, his heart said entirely another.
And by no means was he the only one who felt the King’s attention was being squandered on others. The boy who whispered to the King through all his days was a great warrior, but he was barely more than a child and no-one quite knew why the King chose to favour him so.
The resentment that had been stirred up by those who had thought they could count themselves amongst the Kings nearest and dearest clouded the purpose that they should have had been following.
It was the witch that the Prince sought in the end. He had heard tell that she was the very same witch to whom his brother had gone to seek council before. If she was as wise as people often claimed she was, then all it would take would be a few choice words from, the Whispering Knights to end the series of events that they had seen laid out before them, seemingly unstoppable, gaining momentum with every heartbeat that passed.
“You seek me?” The witch questioned as she breeched the circle of men standing in wait.
“We do.” The Prince said, bowing low. He knew the power of the woman in whose presence he stood was greater than his own by far.
“Then what is it you wish to ask of me?” She said softly as a breeze, but the Prince was going to fall for her tricks, he was as certain as could be that she knew exactly why she had been called here.
“The King grows strange.” He said simply. He would let her interpret from that what she would; he wasn’t going to tell her anything outright. Witches like her would hold power over the others as much as possible. And the emotions that he felt may have been enough for him to ask for her help, but he knew that she would take great delight in holding such emotions, and anything he now asked of her because of them, over his head and over the heads of the other knights in her presence.
~*~
The witch knew what they asked of her, they asked that the not-quite-king would be prevented from gaining so much power that it would go to his head, but she knew that it was already much too late for that.
It wasn’t any one person’s fault. She almost blamed herself as much as she blamed others, if she had approached the King in a different way, perhaps before the others could have a chance to feel such keen loss at his hands...
She understood them perfectly, she could see within them as well as the words that lay on the surface. She knew that they wished to see the King disposed of, but only in the best way possible. They’re mouths said that it was for the good of the knights and the people in the surrounding countries.
But she could see in their hearts that they were not pure of intent; they were full, not of worry for the kingdom and the future of the land, but of bitterness and envy over the King’s young confident. She could see it just as she had seen all those years ago that the path of the King would be marred with unspeakable acts and thoughts.
She did not convey this knowledge to the men gathered there, for she knew full well that they would not listen to her or be able to understand her words even if they did hear them. Instead she smiled and tried to reassure them.
“Leave it to me.”
~*~
The knights at the camp were jolly and happy. There was to be much dancing and frivolity in a few short days, for whist now they were waiting for instructions from their King and waiting for the return of the few friends they had noticed missing, they knew that when the battle was won then once again they could spend knights dancing and talking of a future that they would build together, a happy life full of frivolity once more.
They trained hard and fought harder in the light of day, but at night by the glow of a fire they would let themselves become like ordinary men, playing and working and in love with life. As they sat in a circle this night waiting for the world of dawn to call them to battle once more their thoughts were far from the fate that may befall them come the sunrise.
And in a circle they sat as still as stone, those knights whom none could count.
~*~
The hill was high and overlooked a great kingdom of many generations, the sun was not yet risen and the King was enjoying his last few moments of peace before he went to battle once more. He looked towards the hill, not yet standing on the edge of it, he was close to his knights here, close enough to hear them speak and to smell the fire burning, but he was craving quiet solitude.
It wasn’t until the deepest part of the night before the sun broke the dawn that the noticed something strange, to his left out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see a woman sitting glancing at him, but he knew (for he had checked thoroughly upon his arrival) that there were none there upon his arrival. He had not seen her approach, and yet here she was. He did not think himself so unobservant that he would miss the presence of such a strange (and beautiful) woman, but it seemed that he had.
Overcome by curiosity, the King turned to look her in the eye and question her presence, but as soon as he looked in her direction, she appeared to be there no longer. Dismissing it as a figment of his imagination and the darkness of shadows playing over the trees the King looked towards the hidden horizon of what would be his new lands once more.
The King’s pulse quickened as from the corner of his eye not only did he see the woman once more, but he saw her gesture towards the hill bidding her to follow him.
He looked in the direction she had started to walk but saw no-one, not a soul was there save for the breeze moving through the trees. He turned to look at his knights, they were still fairly quiet, no doubt most settling down for sleep now and as he turned his head he was sure he saw her waiting. They wouldn’t miss him right now, as long as he didn’t travel too far then he could be back by first light to give the order.
He knew where she was going; she was cresting the hill to the highest point, that place where everything was clear and easy to see. As he walked towards the hill he saw her standing there, a woman he had seen before, one whose image hid her years as effectively as she was able to hide herself.
“What is it you see when you stand over this hill?” She asked gesturing to what the King knew to be the expanse of fields and small towns that littered the view as far as the eye could see when one carried on over the hill.
“They are my lands.” The King replied, “And I shall rule over them well.”
“But are these lands not owned by another?” she remarked, half a question, half a statement of fact.
“Not for much longer.” he assured her, “Come dawn they shall be mine. They shall see in time that I am a better ruler than those who came before me.”
“What of the man who is lord of these lands? Shall he be stripped of his title so carelessly?”
“He shall remain here if he bows to me, good leaders of men are valuable, any man would be a fool not to think so.”
“And if he refuses to surrender his lands to such a stranger?” she asked, prying details from the King.
“Then we shall do what we must.”
“I see.” She said, solemn as her life was long, “And of his wife then? His children? Surely they should be extended the courtesy of rule over the lands which were once theirs?”
“If, as with all men, they concede my superiority over them.”
She took a breath, though the King was unsure as to whether she needed to do such things. “I strike a bargain with you,” she said soft as a breeze, “A King should know his lands and his people as well as he knows his own heart, would you agree?”
“I would.”
“Then if you think that from this point you can take seven paces exactly and observe Long Compton and the people that live there, those people who are to be your subjects, then I shall swear to you, you shall be King of all England as well as my allegiance, but if you shall not I shall act as I see fit. You can choose to deny this bargain if you think it unfair.”
The King thought this a challenge so simple in nature that one would be a fool not to accept it. From the hill, seven paces exactly there would be a perfect view of every town and village. He did not reply in words, but instead took his first long proud step.
“One,” she counted out, looking so forlorn that the King almost relented. “Two,” she said as ignoring such superstition he steeled himself and walked forward another pace.
She counted them all out until he rested at what he had thought was the perfect clear view of the town, but in the way there was a long mound, the Arch-Druid’s barrow it was sometimes called and he knew in his heart of hearts that he had made a fatal error.
He turned to look at her fear in his eyes as there were tears in hers. “Look not at me, but at the sky my dear, at the moon and the stars, look towards the path of the sun and know that this is what must be.”
And as he turned towards the edge of the hill to look out at the horizon he grew still and cold as stone until, piece by piece it was all that he and his knights became.
The witch herself saw what she had done and was overcome with a crippling guilt, but knowing that she had done what was right she sought to make sure that she would always be there to watch over these brave but misguided men and turned herself into and Elder tree, calm and beautiful, said to bleed in sorrow and sympathy if cut.
And so she waited.
~*~
There are many legends that surround the frozen knights locked in their sad state.
It is said that they are free in the witching hour to once more talk as friends, unable to claim the land that the King to this day overlooks because of their curse. He sighs and doesn’t join his knights because he knows all the things that they have lost because of the impossible bargain he struck.
Even now he would be invited back into their lives as an old and beloved friend, but the pain of knowing he was their downfall was too great for him to face, through thousands of years.
The Whispering Knights know little of where their other friends are. Though they are so close to them, they have never ventured beyond the treacherous circle they had made that fateful night, knowing both too little, and far too well of the affect their deeds had had on their fellow men.
It is said that the spell can be broken, and that it will be one day. Perhaps when the King is once more ready to rule. Maybe it will be love that breaks the curse, maybe the wisdom needed to rule a kingdom that comes only with watching the seasons grow and change year upon year. I wish the person who manages to end this spell the best of luck.
And maybe, if I asked politely, they will tell me the secrets I have strived so long to hear.
The Classical Key
He awoke in a king-sized bed, bathed by the sunlight streaming from the window and the gentle, warming rays hitting his face. However, the warm atmosphere did nothing to help his current mental state. He felt like he had a hangover mixed with a morphine withdrawal. It was as if none of his joints wanted to work. He didn’t want to open his eyes, being quite content to just go back to sleep and forget about the day.
What had he been doing last night? He couldn’t remember. Well, it didn’t matter for now. He was sure that the memory would...
No, wait.
He wasn’t sure the memory would come back, it was gone, he tried to grasp at it, but there was nothing there not even an inkling of a place or a time.
He wasn’t sure of anything. Who was he? He couldn’t remember, not a word not a memory not a name. He knew that something was wrong, as surely as he knew that he should be able to remember, that his own name should be on the tip of his tongue or at the front of his mind, but it wasn’t and he couldn’t.
He sat bolt upright, scanning the beautiful but simple room around him. It was immaculately kept. The bed he was in was soft and silken. The cream-colored sheets matched the plain walls and lush carpets but they were embroidered with black lace in delicate patterns that looked almost hand sewn. Behind him was a large black tinted mahogany head board. And to the left of the bed, at the other end of the room by the window that filtered in the offending light, was a matching mahogany desk. A chest of drawers stood directly opposite where he sat and to his right was a huge wardrobe that was set into the wall. There were two doors leading out of the room.
These things were so distinctive, they should have been instantly connecting but he recognized none of these things even in his state of blind panic he knew that something should have been familiar.
Was this his room? Did he live here? Did he live on his own or with other people? What did he do? Would his employer mind that he wasn’t at work? Did he even have a job?
His neck felt like it had no strength left, and holding his head up was as impossible as lifting a car. Even the dim sunlight of day break was burning his eyes, every muscle ached and he felt like he was made of rubber. He placed his head in his hands, shaking, and found that there was the unmistakable dull pain on his forehead of an old bruise. He fluttered his fingers along it, trying to assess the extent of the damage without causing any more pain. It felt like he had a gash on his head. He felt like he’d spent weeks running. He was certain he’d never felt this bad before, but how could he know that and so little else?
What the fuck was his name?
The cut on his head; that must be the answer. Maybe he’d been in an accident. Maybe this was just a case of temporary amnesia and he felt like this because they’d given him some form of pain medication. But for some reason some niggling insignificant gut instinct made him think this wasn’t the case.
Or not the whole case, at least.
He knew with a certainty that there was nothing for it. He must get out of bed and seek answers. He pulled back the covers and quickly realised that he was as naked as the day he was born. Slightly embarrassed, (although he wasn’t exactly sure what for as there appeared to be no signs of anyone else in the room) he gathered his bed clothes around himself and shuffled as slowly as his worn out body would allow him to what he assumed was a wardrobe.
When he opened it, his cheeks flushed bright red. Hung up were three sets of leather trousers, several silk shirts of varying colours and a leather duster. Things, although he thought were very beautiful, he felt that he wouldn’t normally wear. But it was not these that made him blush like a virgin (which for all he knew he could very well be). What scandalised him so were the costumes. Some latex cat suits, short skirts, maid outfits, school girl (or boy) uniforms, whips, objects that he was very much sure are involved in some form of bondage and four pairs of hooker boots.
He hoped very, very much that these didn’t belong to him. Maybe he was taken in after a bad night by a kind prostitute, like the Good Samaritan. (Though, for the life of him, he couldn’t work out how he could remember such a story when he still had no idea who he was.) He searched through the drawers to look for something acceptable to wear. After opening the first draw to find it full of... toys of a rather indecorous variety, he almost discontinued his search.
It was after a few minutes of trying to sit down to the blank musings of an empty head that he realised that there weren’t many other options to be had but to continue. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself successful with the third drawer, coming across boxers and a few t-shirts. And finally, after finding some more items that he didn’t wish to spend time lingering over, he found a few sets of jeans on the shelf above the clothes rack. He grabbed a pair of the jeans, a dark green t-shirt and some boxers, changing into them quickly.
Once dressed, he felt settled enough to slowly explore his surroundings. Pulling on the one door to find it locked, he achingly shuffled to the other to find a substantially sized bathroom. It was as stunning as the bedroom but had no windows; instead there was a huge chandelier in the centre that lit up the entire room. But the lack of natural light made the otherwise stunning room as oppressive as a prison. The huge blue room had a white bath tub that was partially sunk into the floor and a large shower in the corner. Off to the side there was a low wall, behind which he assumed there was a toilet. Not far from the small wall were two sinks with a large ornate mirror over both of them. This place was so beautiful he almost wondered why he was allowed in here.
Unless this place belonged to him.
If so then why did he have two sinks? Maybe he did have a boyfriend, and didn’t live on his own. He wasn’t sure why he said boyfriend, but when he thought girlfriend it didn’t seem instinctively right. If he had a boyfriend then where was he? Why had he left him in this state? Did he know he was in this situation or was he away? Did he even exist? Everything that he found just led to more and more questions that were becoming more and more impossible to answer.
He was so tired already.
The huge bath tub seemed so inviting. He would have preferred to have taken a shower but he didn’t think his body would have been up to it, the lights were already burning his eyes and making him want to throw up. Maybe if he kept the door open and turned off the main chandelier, then maybe the light would be low enough that he could have a relaxing bath. And maybe rid him of some of this infernal joint pain—he felt like an old man.
Wait.
What if he was an old man? It made as much sense as the rest of his day. Maybe he had dementia. It would explain why he couldn’t remember anything. But therein lies the question; does a mad man realise he’s mad? Are people with such ailments aware of them at the time or do they exist in their own world? He had to check, at least.
The huge mirror was the first obvious port of call. He had to find out who he was, even if just a little. He closed his eyes and felt his way slowly to the sinks, fearing what he would see when he got there. It was stupid and childish, but he couldn’t help it. The fear made everything seem nightmarish, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
Feeling the cool glass under his fingertips, he took several deep calming breathes before very slowly opening his eyes.
At least one of his questions had been answered this morning.
He didn’t look old at all, but he did look like he’d had a narrow escape from some form of accident—there was a large angry gash on his forehead. Trying to draw his eyes away from his scars, he appraised himself in the mirror.
He was actually quite a young man, maybe in his early twenties. Blond hair, almost golden in colour but a tad too long for it was getting in his eyes, which were brown and very dark considering how pale his skin was. He felt that he was a handsome man but that he had the look of a person who had gotten worryingly thin. Maybe after whatever accident befell him he had to stay in bed. It adequately explained why he felt so weak.
But how could this man in the mirror, the man who moved as he moved, flinched as he flinched breathed as he breathed, be himself when the appearance was that of a total stranger? He couldn’t remember what he looked like, (although he could see it now) and he couldn’t remember his name. He might as well not even exist for all he knew of himself.
It was like trying to be a detective in the world’s most bizarre mystery novel. He was trying to deduce everything about himself, in a mirror, but it was impossible, all he saw was a scared man without an inkling of what it meant to be himself and as he looked into those terrified eyes it slowly dawned on him; ‘This is me.’
‘Now stop this.’ he thought sternly to himself, before the panic had a chance to set in again, ‘This will get you nowhere. Sit down, have a nice bath and relax. Then have a proper look around. Maybe you’ve left your wallet or some clue to who you are somewhere in the room.’
He filled the bath and sank into the water and put his mind to his own identity. But every time he thought he was getting somewhere, like his name might begin with a letter near the beginning of the alphabet, or that there was something important that belonged to him that had to do with fish, he felt his headache throb behind his eyes and the idea was gone again.
~*~
By the time he woke up several hours later, the water he was bathing in had run cold. But much to his relief, his joints—although not painless—were far more relaxed. He slowly tried to pull himself out of the bath, but found that his arms didn’t quite have the strength to hold his own body weight without slipping back into the water. So first draining the bath, he half crawled, half flopped onto the hard white tiled floor. Hanging over a rack in the corner was a small collection of white towels and a white dressing gown. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself against the tub and slowly got to his feet.
The dressing gown was thick and fluffy. He wrapped it around his alarmingly thin figure and felt like he was sinking into Chantilly cream. Whoever owned this place, whether it was himself or someone else, certainly had a taste for luxury.
And now onto his task! Mission; find out who the hell he was. The first port of call was the desk. There was nothing on top of it but to the side there were three drawers. The first drawer was disappointingly empty, but the next drawer had a stack of paper and a few pencils inside. He took these out and put them on the desk for later; maybe there was something important in them.
The third drawer yielded a beautiful box with a mother of pearl inlay and a silver clasp at the front. When he opened the lid, he found it was an old fashioned music box that played something very familiar. He knew that the box was important. He wasn’t completely sure why he knew this, but he was certain of it. He sat and listened for a while longer. It was Bach, and, if he wasn’t much mistaken, it was the prelude from the first cello suite. Someone used to play this for him. He could smell the rosin in the air and feel the vibrations of the strings in his toes. The more he thought about it, the harder it was to recall. His head pounded with the weight of it all.
‘Let’s put that aside for a moment’ he resolved. ‘It’ll do you no good to faint now.’ So before he continued his grand search of the room, he decided to look through the paper. All of the pages were blank, but they needn’t stay that way and he knew he didn’t want them to. He picked up the previously discarded pencils. The weight and the shape felt achingly familiar in his hand. He sat down in the chair and began to draw.
~*~
Meanwhile, in another part of London, a young and handsome man called Finn was searching every square inch of his home town for his boyfriend of four years, Adrian.
Finn was a photographer. Talented and full of promise, he’d been invited to take some promotional shots in Paris for a new line of designs that were about to hit shops world-wide. For Finn, this was a huge chance to break into the scene and get his name seen by top fashion designers and music magazines. Adrian had been all for it.
Initially Finn wanted Adrian to come along, but after much deliberation, Adrian decided that with his final pieces due for his fine arts course, he’d better stay behind. Then he could look after Finn’s house, as well. So off Finn went to Paris for a fortnight.
When he got back, his lover was gone.
There wasn’t a note, none of Adrian’s things were missing and his suitcase was still in the wardrobe. No one had seen him. He wasn’t in his own flat or in Finn’s house. Nor had he turned up at his mother house or with any of their friends. His passport was still in the drawer, his wallet on the table. In fact, all of his possessions were in the house, but there was no sign of a struggle. Finn was distraught, phoning the police as soon as he realised that Adrian was nowhere to be found. But they had no report of him either, and without any of his things missing, they came to the conclusion that something unspeakable was likely to have befallen the young man and began searching for a body. But after almost three weeks, there was still nothing to be found, not even a single hair or spot of blood.
Finn himself had scoured the flat and the house for any clues but the only thing he could find missing was the music box he had given to Adrian as a present. He wasn’t an excellent cello player but Adrian’s love of all classical music spurred him on to practice intensively. He used to play Bach for Adrian when he was upset, and Finn had bought Adrian the music box just over a year prior to his disappearance, to keep him company whenever Finn was away. Its disappearance perturbed Finn as much as it gave him hope. It was something to look for, a link and a connection that could be found.
Eventually, almost a month after Finn got back from Paris; five different witnesses arrived on his door step, claiming that they had seen a young man matching Adrian’s appearance. He had been spotted on the road just outside Finn’s house over a month ago, halfway through Finn’s business trip, and that was the last anyone saw of him.
From what the witnesses could recall Adrian had been crossing the road with a small wooden box in his hands when he was hit full on by a car that had turned the corner at full speed without looking. Everyone was very worried that the young man would have been badly hurt but when they all came forward to help, everyone—including someone saying they had phoned an ambulance—said that there were about ten minutes that no one could remember and by the time the ambulance turned up there was no one there; no trace of the car or of the young man that had been struck down.
None of the witnesses could recall anyone turning up at that time. All they remembered was one moment everything being full of panic and action and the next moment the ambulance was there and the boy was not.
In addition to this strange recollection of a seemingly impossible incident for some reason, none of them knew why they didn’t feel it important to contact the police with this information; as if that young man had just been wiped from their minds. The whole event was a dim recollection that no one understood until they’d seen the ‘missing persons’ posters. It was like his image lifted the haze in their minds but still, no one could quite recall what exactly had happened in those ten minutes.
Finn was on the verge of a break down. In the last few weeks, he’d fallen deep into depression. This only increased when it became clear that none of the witnesses had any clue where Adrian was. He just didn’t know what to do any more. He barely ate or slept and sometimes he felt like he had to remind himself to even breathe. Everything seemed pointless.
Or at least it had until that day.
The day his view of the world was turned around.
It seemed like another of the days that had been blurring into one strange mass of indistinct time when he first caught his glimpse of them; a small gathering of golden skinned gods. They were not, as one might have expected from such striking individuals, all stunningly beautiful, but they caught the eye all the same. Their appearance commanded respect and authority as if they were far older than their faces portrayed.
They moved as one towards the bench where Finn was sitting.
The head of the group walked towards him and Finn felt he had no choice but to stand up in respect. As the woman drew closer, Finn’s breath caught in his chest. Finally she drew up to him, almost touching and far closer than complete strangers normally stood, to whisper in his ear as though it were nothing to speak to a stranger in this manner.
“I know where he is.”
~*~
The amnesiac was still sitting at the desk, drawing. He had been drawing all afternoon and didn’t feel like he wanted to stop. He couldn’t remember if he had ever drawn before, but he assumed that he must have, for after the first few clumsy attempts he was able to draw many of the things in the room with an accuracy that he was certain surpassed the skill of an amateur.
There was a knock at the locked door, but he made no move to. It was barely a moment before it was opened, and in walked a stunning man, or at least he thought this stranger was a man. He was amazingly androgynous, but his voice revealed his true gender. The sounds that spilled from this man’s lips were deep, smooth and rich. Listening to it was like drowning in chocolate. His hair was so blond it was almost white and his grey-blue eyes shone through the room.
“Hello, again. How are you feeling?”
Again? Now he was just confused (well, more than before). He didn’t recognise this man at all; surely he would have remembered someone so completely enthralling. He took a moment to appraise the blond again. In his hand was a leather bag, around his neck was a stethoscope and he was wearing over his jeans and shirt what appeared to be a long white lab coat.
‘He must be a doctor!’ was the only sensible conclusion that he was able to come to, ignoring the strange amalgam of things hidden around the room, ‘Thank god!’ Now he could find out what exactly happened to him and what his own name was. The apparent doctor walked over to him and took his pulse, his temperature, checked his eyes, his breathing and the gash on his head before the young Jon Doe worked up the courage to talk.
“I’m sorry,” he asked, “but who are you?” The doctor stared at him for a moment before sighing.
“I see your long term memory isn’t being processed. I’m Doctor Saille. I’ve been looking after you these past few weeks.” He answered glancing back down at the notes he had been scribbling in an official looking folder, “You seem to be having some trouble storing your short term memories. Despite that, you’re pretty lucky, you’ve been showing improvement and there appears to be no lasting damage. I bet you probably feel a bit worse for wear, though.” He took out a second notebook from his bag and jotted a few more things down. “Could you tell me what you remember up to?”
“Well...I woke up this morning, looked around the room, I had a bath and found this music box.” He pointed to the chest of drawers. “I found some paper and pencils in there and have been drawing ever since.”
“Good, good. And what’s my name?” The doctor asked.
“Saille, you said. Wasn’t it?”
“Excellent, I was just testing your short term recollection. I think we’re doing well, here. You’re able to remember much more than before. We’ll bring you some more of the food you liked yesterday and I’ll come to check up on you again this evening.” Saille put his things back in his bag, turned and walked out the door, locking it behind him.
Fuck, he was so stupid—he didn’t even ask for his own name. He still knew nothing about himself, he couldn’t even remember the previous day. How long had he been here? Come to think of it, why was he in a place like this rather than a local hospital. Was this a private ward? There was still so little that made sense, everything still hurt and his entire day had been a blur of mysteries and nonsense.
He pulled himself to the corner of the room curled up like a young child and wept.
~*~
Saille locked the door of the new intake behind him and sighed. He knew that memory loss was a side effect of this enchantment, but in his two and a half thousand years, he’s not seen any of his humans take this long to remember. It had been 4 weeks and there wasn’t even a hint of a name yet; most had their entire lives back within a week. The longest he’d ever seen memories take before that was a fortnight, and even then they had remembered their own name after only a few days.
The most frustrating thing was that he knew this patient still had the memories; he could feel them moving under the surface. The checking of his patient’s vital signs wasn’t actually necessary—Saille could feel if there was anything physically wrong with the new boy. Saille well knew that this boy’s weariness was just the magic finally settling into his skin, but why weren’t his memories back when his body was almost fully recovered?
He walked down the long cream hallways towards the kitchen, to tell them that the boy was now awake.
“Saille.” The doctor turned around.
“Yes Ioho?”
Ioho was as dark as Saille was pale, his eyes such a dark brown that it was hard to tell where his iris ended and his pupils began. With the help of Saille, he ran this place. He was older than Saille but not by much, and together they owned these halls. They were some of the best known in the business and Ioho was well respected by all. He was a straightforward and honest man and very protective of all he created, be it a slave or one of his own. But unlike Saille— who had changed with the times and grown to understand and care for everyone, learning something new about each generation of humans that flickered by like sparks in a fire—Ioho was very set in his ways. If it weren’t for Saille, he’d probably still be living in the old traditions. He never accepted that they should hide who they were from the human world. It was his brother that kept him grounded and reasonable.
Saille wasn’t a blood relative of Ioho in the modern sense, but they had shared their blood with each other; something that only came with trust and years of friendship, and as such, Ioho was more than happy to call him his brother. Though Saille would never admit it to Ioho’s face, he was deeply in love with him and had been for several centuries.
“How is he doing?” Ioho asked.
Saille shook his head. “Still not so good, I’m afraid.”
“How bad is not so good?”
“His recollection is getting better; he can remember more than a few hours at a time now but he still can’t recall anything from day to day.”
“What can we do?”
“In honesty, I’m not so sure. These human medicines aren’t working effectively. They can heal any of the physical damage he sustained in the crash but to be honest, I don’t think there’s much physical damage left. It’s the magic that’s still hurting him and there’s not much that conventional methods can do in these cases. It’s either wait for his mind to fix itself, which could be tomorrow or it could take months, or use our methods to replace the memories in his mind, but as we don’t know who he is either, it’s not that useful a suggestion.”
Ioho looked Saille in the eyes for a moment before speaking. “Couldn’t we just invent him? Give him some memories about a past home or job or just a name even?”
Saille looked horrified at the idea, perplexed that his friend would even suggest such a thing. “You can’t do that, not now, not like this. The more you make up now the more he’ll start suppressing his real memories. No. I’d say unless this takes much longer, we just let him heal. It’s far better for all of us to just wait it out.”
~*~
Saille came back in the evening to check on the anonymous blond, to find him asleep at the desk, lying on the paper. The floor around him was littered with sketches. Saille walked to the sleeping boy and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, awaking him with a jolt.
“What?” he looked around startled. “Oh,” he sighed “it’s just you.”
The doctor looked pleasantly surprised. “You remember me?”
“Yes, you’re my doctor aren’t you? And I’m pretty sure your name begins with an S, Sam maybe?”
He smiled wide. “Close, it’s Saille. I’m highly impressed, I think this is the first time we’ve met in which I haven’t had to re-introduce myself. Could you tell me what else you remember of today?”
The human boy paused for a second before replying. “Well, I remember you. I remember telling you what I remember if that makes sense, but it’s like a second memory, I remember me telling you what I did but I don’t remember actually doing much of it. I can’t really remember much before my bath. Is that strange?”
“No it’s fine. It’s more than fine actually; it’s perfect; you truly are coming on leaps and bounds. Did you eat?”
“Yes, I did. Thanks, by the way.”
“You’re quite welcome. After all, it is my job to look after you.”
Saille looked at the paper on the desk, his eyes drawn to the very realistic depictions of the music box, the bed and anything else that happened to be in sight. “These are very good. You’re obviously a skilled artist.” He shuffled through the papers on the desk until he came across a detailed sketch of a young man. “Who’s this?”
The artist shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s anyone in particular, not that I remember if it is. It was just a face in my head.” He picked his sketch back up and looked at it.
Then again, he felt it might be something important, but thinking about it too long was causing the old dull ache behind his eyes and a new hollow one in his chest to throb.
~*~
The man to whom the mystery face belonged was currently following a group of complete strangers to what appeared to be their home or club house. It was a tall Georgian building, lavishly furnished but somehow still tasteful.
His common sense was telling him that he should get out of here. He shouldn’t have been here with people that he didn’t know. He didn’t know what they wanted, or what they thought he wanted, or even if it was him they meant to talk to. But every base instinct in every fibre of his body was telling him to stay. These people were trust worthy. They were the key to finding where Adrian was.
“Sit.” Spoke the one that had approached him first. “Make yourself comfortable, we have a lot to talk about.”
Finn took a deep, stilling breath. “You have Adrian. Where is he?”
“No, we don’t have him. Sit.” Finn perched nervously on a red velvet chaise longue. “We don’t have him, but we know who does. They are the same race as us but not our blood ties. Relax. We shall explain in due time. First things first however, my name is Iris.” She held out her hand in anticipation of Finn’s introduction.
Finn, who was still confused by the entire situation, did nothing but stare.
“Well, I could just extract the information from your mind but I thought it might be more polite for me to let you tell me your name.” Finn quickly grabbed the girls hand and shook it vigorously, as if to make up for leaving it for so long.
“I’m Finn.”
Iris wasn’t what one would call beautiful. Her face was quite asymmetrical, her hair so curly that it seemed impossible to tame, and her eyes were an unassuming hazel colour. But her presence and her aura projected an unmistakeable power and joy that made her completely breathtaking.
“What do you mean, you could extract the information?”
“If I touch my hand to your head, I can either take memory or add it. I have to concentrate on them. I can’t do it accidently but the older I get, the easier it becomes. It’s just one of the many powers our kind possesses.”
“You do realise that you’re making no sense; your kind? How can you just add memories to someone’s head? Will you stop talking nonsense and just say what you mean already?” He asked, feeling fraught although he kept his voice as steady as possible.
A small smile graced the side of Iris’s mouth. “Hmm, not just yet. I know, let’s play a game first! I like games.”
“What are you on about?” Finn’s patience was wearing quickly.
“Just one short game,” She insisted, “then I promise that I’ll tell you everything.”
He sighed, resigned. “What game?”
“Just a guessing game, guess the age. How old do you think I am? I’ll give you three guesses.”
“I don’t know, twenty-five?”
Iris shook her head grinning. “I’m very flattered, but no, I’m a little bit older than that.”
“Thirty?”
“Higher.”
“Thirty-five?”
“Three strikes I’m afraid.” She gave a heartfelt laugh. “I know that you’re not going to believe me when I say this but you’re going to have to trust me and have a completely open mind.”
“What are you like, fifty or something?”
“Well, it’s closer than you’re original guesses. Take that number and multiply it by, let’s see,” she pause tilting her head like a bird, “Five and a half.”
“275?”
“I’m 274 but it’s close enough.”Her eyes sparkled with a barely contained mirth. Finn got the distinct impression that she was entirely unhinged, though possibly she utilized her madness well. “You seem surprised; I know you could tell that we’re not human.”
“You lot are mad,” He said slowly as though explaining something to a small child. “You do realise that you’ve completely lost it. How can you expect me to believe that you’re centuries old?”
“Because I can my dear.” She said perching delicately on the arm of a chair, “I told you to keep an open mind. If you want to find Adrian, you have to accept that our age is the smallest part of our nature that you need to keep in account.”