Miko:

Fighting erupts around me in a loud twist of swings and footsteps. What is this place? This feels similar to the worlds I visit in my sleep, but everything is masked in darkness. Sounds hit my ears, but my eyes never opened. I see things occasionally, or at least I think I do. Images pass through my mind on some days; on others, the whole world is a shadow with sounds and sensations occurring randomly. In this state, everything is too difficult to decipher. A voice drifts through the lake of my mind, and I can hear the words — I try to reach out to them or answer their beckon, but I cannot move. Words without a face are my only attachment to reality as I drift through the lake, floating on shallow water as the temperature changes from warm to cold at a moment’s notice. Time does not flow correctly here. Chains of events happen intermittently, without context or reason.

It is too difficult to form thoughts here or to digest information that comes through as noise. A sizzling thought appears in my brain and disappears before I can catch it long enough to dissect it. Once I remember, and before I forget, the thought is always about my brother. I hadn’t seen much here, but the voice was his; I knew that for sure. His sentences were brief, and his tone sluggish. The more words he said, the more difficult it was to understand. He spoke to me and about me with reverence and sadness. Maleki begged me to be there with him, but that didn’t make sense. He was the one who was not with me. Where is here and there for either of us? Am I dead? Am I forced to witness the remaining of time and the world’s progression? If that is the case, there are many feelings in death. Witnessing without sight ruins the point, so this surely isn’t a curse in death. Too many senses are activated in this place for my body to be dead.

What was that thought again? It escaped me swiftly, but it felt so close. I tried to remember; I try hard and often, but memories are too difficult to pull from. Was there something to remember? A sharp sound that started as a shaking bellow and ended in a prolonged high-pitched scream dislodged my attention. Sweeping sounds and collisions occurred in circular directions around me; my back was warmer suddenly than the water. Air crashed around me — my body felt it first — then my ears let the sound carry throughout the shallow lake. Only when blades, beasts, or people collided did sounds like these erupt. As far as I have been here, these sounds have been the first of their kind. What were they?

Without sounds, my mind wandered infinitely, without purpose or destination. My mind was like the thick forest of the life trial: thousands of interlocking thoughts and branches that connected to each other too easily to stay on a single path. Recalling any information past the surface-level feeling of remembering it was too difficult. And yet, I was awake, consciously aware of my state of being and what I am without. This was hell — my own personal one.

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Grandmother believed in something greater and lesser than ourselves, but she never pried on my own faith. Instead, she told me stories of other places and people that represented something more than our own personal conflicts. They did sound similar to the stories Grandpa would tell, but he never appeared to really believe them; they were just fables, fantastic tales that may have hints of truth but are meant to be epic rather than truthful. The stories she told were real to her, though, real enough that she based her entire life on their teachings. Part of me thought that was stupid, but she was always good to me, so maybe there was depth to the stories she told. They profoundly impacted how she approached her life, but their importance was mostly lost on me. I had tried to pull at the stories and remember their contents as they were told to me, but when I tried, only wisps of the feelings they invoked washed over me. That was the hollow cruelty I had endured for some time now as memories and time escaped me.

How long had it been?

If I can count the seconds as they pass, perhaps my consciousness will not fade, and I can begin to recall that thing that escapes me.

One — Two — Three

“Please-“ a voice whispered coldly.

What was I doing? Why do I keep forgetting? I struggle against the water I am lying both above and within, but nothing happens or changes. My body did not move, but the water rippled around me in a circular motion. Perhaps if I can sing a tune that will return my memories, that worked in the story, Mother told me about the peasant who forgot he was the king after taking a tumble. What was the tune? I began humming until, and the words filled my mind.

Sirs speak, and soldiers slur.

“I’m so…tired.” The voice spoke weakly.

Is that my brother's voice? How long has it been since I heard it last?

One — Two — Three — Four

“This journey is long and arduous.” A different more calm voice echoed softly.

I have heard those words before. They were Nomen’s so long ago.

Sirs speak, and soldiers slur. Swords swing and sp-

“And when your brother can no longer light the path ahead?” A voice cut me off.

I had overheard this before when we were still in Quavoris. Kallen asked the question, but what was Maleki’s response? How long ago was that? A year? Two years?

What was I doing again?

One — Two — Three — Four — Five

“Miko, before you go to sleep, don’t forget about your appointment with the healer in the morning.” A sweet voice trickled above the water.

Grandmother Kecila…She always made me feel normal. Maybe she is right. Sleep, I thought with eyes that blinked together like glue. I just need some sleep.