Amalfi

Chapter Five: Wake and Wonder

οὐδέν ἐστι θηρίον γυναικὸς ἀμαχώτερον,
οὐδὲ πῦρ, οὐδ᾽ ὧδ᾽ ἀναιδὴς οὐδεμία πόρδαλις.
"There is no beast, no rush of fire, like woman so untamed. She calmly goes her way where even panthers would be shamed."

- Ἀριστοφάνης (Aristophanes)

Chapter Five

The next time he woke, sun streamed through the cave with a cheeriness he resented. Whispers could be faintly heard, but they were light and thin, loose on the breeze. His heart was grumbling in his chest, but it was thumping; his lungs were hardly inflating, but still, they were filling.

He was alive.

So, for the briefest of moments, he was elated.

Elated, because he felt a little strength, it thrummed amongst every beat and breath, and lent a bit more depth to his pulse. It was more than he'd had—well, it was more than he'd ever had, because he couldn't remember otherwise. His memory began and ended with that gods-forsaken beach.

Then, his sliver of joy collapsed. It rolled to expose its tender belly, vulnerable from hip to throat, docile and splayed at his feet. It was he who stood above it with knife in hand; he killed it where it lay. He killed it, because the more he thought about it, watched it, the more he felt ridiculous.

The moment he fully evaluated the crummy handful of strength he'd scraped up, he realized it was merely a few raindrops cupped in his palm, that was all. He had empty canyons ready to be filled, he had winding riverbeds dry and barren; he needed floods, not flecks. He had so much more to regain to even consider a first step towards normalcy, whatever normalcy was or would be. He needed gushing waves of strength to fill his tattered muscles, tides of metal and fire to mend what had been broken, swells of something ancient and willing—instead, he was storming with frustration, anger, and anxiety. Not strength, might, or power. Detriments filled his empty spaces, and they'd swelled, taking room from what he needed. He was teeming with confusion. It was precarious. He was potentially flooding treacherous grounds with unstable sludges of emotion, and certainly muddying every thought that slapped against his addled mind. Unease was pouring in, not energy, not health. He needed to be somewhere, doing something, something was missing.

What was his name?

Again, nothing came to him. He bit back curses and eased his arms into position beneath him. Grunting at the effort, feeling like his muscles were unraveling, he forced himself into a sitting position and tried not to shout. His spine creaked, his torso clenched, his chest caved, his arms shook.

"Stop that, you'll injure yourself worse," Amalfi scolded, coming into view.

Behind her, he could see silent figures waiting: the bird-woman who'd abandoned them, and the strange fox-beast who'd found them. Both, he noticed, flaunted the same expressions of distrust as they stared back, their narrowed glares leveled at him like weapons at an intruder. Their suspicion was a thick, visible layer over stoic stone. It protected the rest of their thoughts from his returned scrutiny, but it was no matter. He found comfort in their guarded demeanors. It felt familiar to him.

Amalfi only looked worried. That was less familiar.

"I—" he started, squinting at the trio, before breaking off to an open, silent gape. His knuckles were white on the wool pelts. The only thing familiar to him was pain, it grinned as it nestled deeper under his skin, but everything else was empty. His mind, his chest, his veins. He could shout and hear it echo back, there was nothing in him, no recollection to lean on. "Where am I?"