Cassandra

II. With Pelor's Guidance

Darkness surrounded me. It gaped underneath me and towered over my head. An enormous weight hung on my chest, so heavy that I couldn't breathe. I was lost in an eternal vast nothingness, I could see nothing, I could feel nothing, I myself was nothing. I only knew one thing, and that was that I was in pain. Cold. But cold with a deadly clammy heat. I could hardly draw breath anymore.
I only knew one thing, and that was that I was in pain. I was sick, and getting sicker, more aware of the fact that I was sick. And then out of the blackness a strange hand touched my face. It was warm, and solid. I tried to reach out and find the body the hands belonged to, but my hand would not obey me, and I could only command my willpower for a moment before my strength gave out, and my mind wandered away. But the hand returned, touching my face again, rallying my determination. I wanted to open my eyes, I wanted to stir, but nothing would obey me, and all I could muster was a feeble movement.
    I tried to speak, but a sharp pain stabbed through my chest when I did, and all that came out was a weak moan. The hand stroked my face again, and I could hear a muffled voice that seemed to come from very far away, speaking words that I couldn't understand. I felt strong arms wrap around my body, gently lifting me. For a moment I struggled faintly, but the arms were far stronger than me, and at last my mind wandered again, sinking back into darkness and oblivion.
    When at last the hand came again, recalling my attention, I was no longer in the same place. It was warmer here, though the weight still hung on my chest, pinning me down. New voices whispered in the darkness. Talking about me. But they were too far away for me to make out what it was they were saying. Sometime's I was lucid enough to hear the muffled voices, and at these time's I could feel the weight of a blanket covering me. But after the first pleasant wash of warmth, it grew oppressively hot, and I often tried to throw the blanket off, but it was so heavy I couldn't lift it. The gentle hands would return, cooling my hot forehead, bringing inexpressible comfort. Sometime's they would lift my head and gently feed me something that gave my body strength. I hated to be so completely dependent on this unknown person, however gentle they might be, and I tried in vain to feed myself or hold my own head up. But my strength was completely gone, and at last I would give up exhausted. 
    Often the weight on my chest grew so heavy I couldn't breath. I would try to call for help, but the weight on my chest cruelly smothered my efforts. I could only lie there, slowly suffocating. But my protector would return, lifting me, easing the weight on my chest. Always the weight returned after a brief reprieve, and each time it was a little heavier. More and more they struggled to lift the weight, sometimes it took many minutes for the weight to be eased enough for me to breathe normally. At last the hands couldn't lift the weight anymore. It got heavier and heavier, slowly crushing me. I couldn't help but cry like a little child, clinging onto the hand that stroked my forehead, and begging them to take the pain away. They would hold my hand, as if trying to hold me up, and stroke my forehead. But there was nothing they could do. For a long time I struggled with death. It was only with a bitter effort I was able to keep myself from sinking under the intolerable weight.
And then with a sudden surge I felt the pain leave me, the weight lifted and suddenly I could breathe. I let out a gasp, drawing in a deep breath despite the pain. With an enormous effort I opened my eyes, looking up at the blurred shape of a wooden ceiling above me.
"Thank Pelor! She's coming back to us." A strange voice said. It sounded like an old man, and I recognized it as one of the distant voices I had heard in the darkness. Suddenly a face came into view above me. A wrinkled but kindly face. "You rest now." He said, patting my cheek. "Get some good wholesome sleep." I nodded, too tired to argue or ask questions. Sleep tugged at my body, but I roused enough strength to grasp the hand that patted my face, and keep it tightly clasped in mine as I sank back into oblivion.

The ticking of a clock was the first sound that filtered in my brain when I began to rouse, after a long dreamless slumber. Sunlight burned through my eyelids, I could hear what sounded like a rocking chair, and sounds of movement in some other room close by. For the first time in a long time my body felt refreshed, my mind clear and untroubled, I was content to lie still, and listen. At last I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings. I was lying on my back, in a simple but comfortable bed. My formal gown was gone, replaced by a man's nightshirt, and underneath the shirt I could see thick strips of linen bandages bound around my chest. A sturdy wooden chair stood beside my pillow, and laid on top in a neat pile, washed and folded, was my dress. Sunlight filtered in through a long narrow window up by the roof, and a small fire provided further light. Sitting in front of the fire in a rocking chair was the old man who had seemingly pulled me back from death.
    In my delirium, and exhaustion, I hadn't recognized him. It was Father Rynoll. He was the keeper of the Zenith: the temple to Pelor god of the sun, outside of the city of Whitestone. I had only ever seen him from a distance, not being a holy woman, or follower of Pelor, but I knew him to be a good man. A long white beard, neatly groomed, cascaded over his chest. He was completely bald, dressed in a simple brown priest's robe, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose. It was easy to see, from the simplicity of the room, bed, chair, and his robes, that this room probably belonged to him. He was rocking back and forth, humming tunelessly, like a great bee. And strangely enough, he was knitting what looked like a fuzzy pink wrapper, the color of which contrasted sharply with the room.
    "Father?" I said, confusedly, wondering how on earth I had ended up here.
    "Ah, you're awake little one." He said laying down his knitting. "There were times when I thought for sure that Pelor was going to call you back into his fold. But it seems that he has decided to return you to us. And how do you feel?" Rising from his chair, he came over to my bed, and settled on the edge, taking my hands in his.
    "Better sir." I said, gathering my strength, I pulled myself higher up on the pillows. A sharp pain stabbed though my chest when I moved, and I sank back after a moment, exhausted.
    "That's good." He smiled, and patted my hand in a fatherly way. Something about the touch, and the smile that went with it, pricked at some inner wound that wasn't fully healed yet. I felt tears rise to my eyes, and I closed them, trying to hide it.
    "How did I get here?" I finally managed to ask, after I had gotten my emotions back under control.
    "I found you out in the woods." The Father answered. "Theres a place I know on the western side of the castle where winter mushrooms grow. In the winter time I like to walk up in the mornings and pick them. I walk, and pray, and think about life. Altogether I find it a most healthy practice, and I always come back more fit for the day's work. I was walking up, as usual, when I came upon you lying half buried in the new snow. At first I thought you were dead, and when I realized my mistake, I brought you back to the temple, praying that Pelor would show mercy and spare your life. You were on the brink of death by the time I found you, and it took a long hard struggle to pull you back. The church has been rather neglected because of it. But a soul in danger is as important as ten in safety, I say."
    "But how long have I been sick?!" I said taken aback, and trying again to lift myself. Another sharp stab of pain drew an involuntary gasp from me, and I once again gave up, sinking back into the pillows behind me.
    "Nearly three months now I would say. I've hardly left your side, except for urgent matters...Ivan's been attending to the needs of the community in my absence, and he does his best, but it wants my hand."
    "Three months!?" I exclaimed, shocked.
    "It is a long time." Father Rynoll said complacently. "However, seeing you awake is ample reward for the effort."
    I smiled gratefully, but talking had worn me out, and my mind had moved on to other matters. Memories of what I had been through were starting to rise to the surface, and I tried in vain to block them out. My eyes filled with tears, and I tried to furtively wipe them away. but nothing could put off my grief any longer. I held out my arms, feeling desperate for something to hold onto, and the Father lifted me. The tears of fear, and despair, and grief, that I had bottled up during my escape, the tears of anguish at Percy's abandoning me, the tears of pain that had gone unshed in my delirious wandering, all came now. I cried until I was completely exhausted. The Father held me quietly as I wept. He never tried to comfort me, or intrude on my grieving, he just let me cry myself out. Then he laid me back down on the pillow, and with another pat on my hand, returned to his knitting. For a long time I lay still and watched him, until at last I was lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic movement of the knitting needles.