Abducted

28

He wanted to stay asleep. His bones ached, his muscles cried out. His mind was jumbled. His dreams spoke of very little, just of memories that would be better off forgotten.

He didn't care about the desert and its terrain. He didn't care for the gentle hand without a face that guided him through it. He wanted to know the face. The name. What they were like. If they were still alive.

Nicanora had been the only name he recalled- well, that, and Zaltana. With Nicanora he could picture a face. Brown skin, curly hair that went to her shoulders, and eyes that never seemed to not glare. She never wore makeup, and her face was dotted with imperfections- a mole there, some acne.

Zaltana was a different story. He couldn't remember her face. But he could remember her actions. He could feel her hands on his arms as she taught him to aim a bow, her rough voice as she sang atop snowy mountains. The magic she helped him wield without caution or reserve. She made him understand his own power.

She also taught him empathy and love. Now, he wondered where she might be. Not even a hello? No checking up? She'd entered the room once, but she hadn't said a word.

Nicanora was trying to convince her to come down. She'd checked back in, carrying the smell of being around alcohol, saying that she'd be sobering Zaltana up to talk.

It was nice, he supposed. Nicanora seemed nice. He wondered if she really was- what did he actually know her as? For that matter, what did he know any of them as? His own sister... he had a vague image of her.

Long, white robe. Carried a scepter. Long white hair that trailed to the ground. A large, fluffy tail, and wolves ears. Blue eyes that could calm you down just by looking at you. He'd told Ivan this, and Ivan had asked him who he was talking about.

He knew that was Maikoh, though. He knew her. That was her.

His children... California he had an image of, a little snapshot of memory. She was in a basket, crying, staring up at him with big blue eyes. She was only a baby, Moses'ed by a scared mother. She was one of the few that hadn't just appeared to him. He had to search for her.

Illinois was a different story. He didn't have a face, he had a personality. A fiery little boy who asked too many personal questions already knowing the answers. He was snarky when he got older, drawing back and only seeming to care about his twin. Rarely showing himself to others. He was a good kid. Just liked acting like the big bad wolf.

The door opened. He wondered if he should just continue to look like he was asleep. He was tired.

"You okay?" Ivan asked, sitting down on the bed. Alfred looked to where he sat, but didn't see him. He smelt food. A hand brushed his cheek. He sat up.

"I'm fine," Alfred replied, "what is that?"

"Broth and noodles. Make sure to chew, please."

"Fine," he felt the bowl get handed to him. The bowl itself was hot, and he grabbed around for the fork for a moment. Ivan put a hand on his back, a silent way of telling him if he needed help he would be there, "Thank you."

"No problem," Ivan replied. It was an informal way of speaking, one he could have only picked up recently, from an American. He wondered how long he had been searching. It had to have been a while, but he knew it wasn't the entire time he was missing.

He ate quietly.

"Is Zaltana sober yet?" he asked. He could hear Ivan gulp.

"No," he replied, "I don't think she wants to talk. She feels guilty about what happened. She doesn't believe anything should have happened to you and she blamed herself."