The Importance of Language
Stillness. That is the only sign that the nightmare has paused for wakefulness. There is no sense of movement even when standing still. They are no longer on a ship floating through the Void.
The smell is another sign. There is only a vague scent of dust and disuse, otherwise the air is fresh, earth and petrichor—distantly, they can hear the sound of a far-off storm and it makes their body tense. Another scent hangs in the air. It is a warm scent, a protective musk and metal tang, mixed with some kind of fiery spice. The bipedal creature from before—the one that lied and said his name was Tony, when it’s actually Anthony.
They open their eyes but can see nothing, they do not have enough seiðr to compensate for such old wounds. They must make do with their true state, blind and mute—for if their sight has been taken, surely the reserved seiðr filling in for their damaged vocal cords was depleted first. They do not know how they became this way, only that they have long since come to terms with the fact.
A pang twists in their stomach. They must search out food. With so little seiðr left, they know that they must nest soon or their little one will not survive. It will be a difficult task without sight or mate, but their ears and nose are still keen. They took a deep breath, but there was no scent of berry in the air, nor the rich earthiness of good roots. This room is barren.
They push off of the soft ground that they lay upon, their arms shake with the effort. Whatever they are on is smooth and has a fair amount of give. They do not feel comfortable walking upon it, so they crawl, and it is a blessing that they do, for after a few cautious movements, their hands come upon a ledge. They feel only air before them, so they lay down and reach over the ledge.
There, hard and solid and cool to the touch. Scooting a little closer, they continue to feel around. The ground below seems to expand outward. With any luck, they are on a piece of furniture—a bed, perhaps?—and what they now feel is the floor. Readjusting so that they are once again sitting with their bare feet on the hard surface, they use their toes to explore outward, reaching as far as their leg will stretch.
Just as they’re contemplating standing, there is a high-pitched creaking. They tense and retract their foot.
“Sorry, I’ll get the hinges oiled.” It was that creature’s voice, the name-liar. They knew it instantly even though the creature was still a stranger. It was warm and a little scratchy and made them relax just a fraction without thought.
They looked toward Anthony, though they could not see him. As like before, they did not understand all of what he said. It was like they knew the words, but they were said wrong—like listening to a particularly thick, slanged accent.
“JARVIS said you were awake—which, obviously, you are,” Anthony continued, his tone and words drenched in an uncomfortable nervousness. “Right, um, you, uh, gotta go? Like, pee or something?”
It was not until the last part that they understood that Anthony was asking if they needed to use the facilities. They pursed their lips and hoped their sightless eyes were properly portraying their glare. They were perfectly capable of using the toilet themself.
“Not the bathroom, got it,” Anthony said quickly. “Then, um, you probably shouldn’t move around too much. I’ve only just managed to bandage you up, and I’m no doctor.”
No doctor—a healer. They did not need a healer. They knew every single injury their body held and how to tend to it. They could also feel the bandages affixed to their skin, and knew that that would suffice until they recovered enough seiðr. However, to do so would require them to eat.
Food. They huffed a displeased sigh. There was no scent of anything edible in their vicinity and, without sight, finding food would be difficult—not impossible, just difficult. They were also tired from merely discovering the floor. They would have to ask this Name-Liar for assistance. They did not know if they could, or were even fully capable of, trusting him, but they also did not know how long it would take blind and hampered by their watcher.
“What’s wrong?” Anthony asked when they rubbed their empty belly as another hunger pain ran through them. “Are… are you hungry? I bet you’re hungry, I mean, you haven’t eaten and we’ve—you’re nodding. Right. I can make soup? Do you like—shit, don’t!”
The creature’s too warm hands wrapped around their biceps, steading them as they tried to stand. Their legs shook and threatened to buckle, but they locked their knees, their hands instinctively clinging to Anthony’s tunic. They would not fall. They took a slow, deep breath, inhaling that warm, safe scent. They would not fall.
“I got you,” the creature said softly, his breath fluttering their hair against their neck. “I got you.”
They turned their head, felt Anthony’s breath on their lips, and whished they could see his face. This close they would miss nothing, even the slightest expression would be noted. It would tell them the truth, whether or not the Name-Liar could be trusted or not. Instead, all knew was the sound of Anthony’s breathing, his heart beating softly, the strange hum that he carried with him, and the feel of his heat and his calloused touch.
Slowly, tentatively, they let go with one of their hands and reached up. They flinched when something prickled their fingertips, but then recalled the darker blur on the lower part of his face. A beard, perhaps? Carefully, cautiously, their fingers explored. The hair was coarse and thick, but not oily or unclean as they knew their own hair must be. It was neatly groomed, following along a strong, square jaw and surrounding thin, unchapped lips. His cheekbones were not overly pronounced, but still sharp enough to shape, and his nose was not thick, nor was it thin or narrow.
They furrowed their brow, trying to create an image of Anthony’s face in their mind. It was a strong face, like a well-crafted helmet. A warrior’s face, and yet, as their fingers traced the curve of Anthony’s eyes, they found softness there. Tracing back downwards, they could feel the signs of age as well, slight folds at the corners of the eyes and mouth. They weren’t overly apparent, but they were there. This was a face that loved to smile and laugh.
“See anything you like?” the creature asked, warm breath brushing against their wrist.
They bit their lip, their fingers hovering in the air as they parsed the words together. Did… did they like… his face? They tilted their head, their sightless vision giving way to a mental image. It was vague, lacking the detail their seiðr could give them if they had enough to spare. Yet, they liked the feel of it on their fingertips and the descriptors that came to mind.
Subtly, they nodded. Yes, they liked what they saw.
Anthony made a huffed sound, and his scent brightened a little, giving it a pleasant, pleased note. “So, food. I’m guessing you want to go to the kitchen?
Kitchen? Their brow crinkled. Did he mean kichene[1]? They sighed, annoyed that words and language kept escaping them. They licked their lips and opened their mouth to speak, but released only a whispered breath. Their annoyance thickened, their hands twisting into Anthony’s tunic. Why must their words be taken from them as well as their sight?
“It’s okay,” Anthony said. His tone sounded soothing, but they did not know this word, okay. What did that mean?
They shook their head, frustrated and forced more air through their damaged throat. It stung fiercely, like swallowing thousands of tiny daggers in reverse, but they were just barely able to form a single word, “Fōda.[2]”
“Fooda,” Anthony repeated with his strange accent. “Food. Right. Got it. This way.”
The creature moved to their side then, his hands never fully leaving them, just repositioned. He gave a gentle, guiding push, and they slide their feet forward. They tensed immediately, their grip on Anthony’s tunic wrenching him to a stop. Their heart was pounding in their throat, the world dark and unknown. Where did he want to lead them? Memories of pain flooded their mind. They heard a phantom echo of dripping. Everything was scolding hot and bitterly cold at the same time. No! No, no no nonononono! They would not go!
“Ne!” they forced out as loud as they could. “Ne! Ne!” They thrashed and repeated that singular word as they collapsed to the hard floor and their voice gave out.
The creature followed them to the ground, their tone a soothing attempt, but they could not hear the words over the incessant dripping, could not understand them. A warm, strong hand came to settle on their nape, another on their cheek, keeping their head from shaking. A forehead pressed against theirs, his nose against theirs.
“Breathe for me,” he commanded quietly, but firmly. “In… out… in… out…” They could feel his breath against their sore lips, warm and drying the already chapped skin. Yet, it was distracting enough that it got them to focus, and Anthony’s words became louder than the dripping. “Breathe for me. In… out…”
They knew these words, understood them, even with the slightly odd accent. When they felt Anthony inhale, they did so too, and exhaled when his warm breath brushed against their face. In… out… in… out… They focused on that, on the feeling of this warm creature surrounding them, on the sound of his voice, and the strength of his scent so close.
“Good,” Anthony breathed out. “Good. It’s alright. You’re safe.”
Goed.[3] They breathed in. They were doing good. They breathed out. They were good. The tension left them. They were good. Good.
“There we go.” The creature’s flat nails scratched wonderfully along the base of their scalp, and they nearly closed their eyes in pleasure. “Oh, someone likes that.”
They felt a pleased rumble deep in their chest, and they leaned into the touch. It soothed them far better than the words they didn’t know. They were good and had been rewarded for it.
[1] Kichene – [Middle English] Kitchen.
[2] Fōda – [Old English] Food.
[3]Goed – [Middle Dutch] good.