Chapter 50. Awakening

larissa smiled sweetly at him as she sat upon the blue velvet cushions of the window seat.  Basking in the light of early morning, she was traced in gold, the oriel window at her back flooding their bedroom.  Still giddy from their lovemaking, she was draped in his green velvet tunic as if wearing the skin of a defeated beast as a trophy.  Pendaran laughed at her.

“Play for me,” she said, “and maybe I’ll dance for you again.”

He rolled out of bed, his bare feet recoiling in protest from the cold tiles.  She whistled appreciatively at his nakedness and tutted when he went to don a loose robe.

“No, play for me like that,” she giggled, “I like to mingle my pleasures.”

Blushing for no adequately explained reason, he sat down before his father’s gilded harp, drawing it carefully back against his chest and embracing it suggestively.  Clarissa giggled and shook her head.

“No, play first, then maybe I’ll reward you.”

“Vixen,” he chided, drawing his fingers slowly over the strings in a liquid glissando.  Her beauty caused his throat to clench with awe as she rose, dancing slowly to his music.

“I miss you,” he said, his fingers moving easily over the strings, stroking them gently as if they were the golden tresses of his beloved, “This is only a dream. You are dead and I am alone.”

“I know, Pen,” she replied, turning gracefully in her practiced dance, “but life goes on.”

“I’m sorry I did not stay with you.”

Clarissa smiled sadly and moved gracefully to his side, her delicate hand stroking his cheek and their lips meeting.  He savored the sweetness of her kiss for the last time.

“Goodbye,” she whispered into his ear, “Find love again and do not sorrow.”

He clutched the harp key, his fingers perusing the knot work and rosettes engraved upon its winged surface. The busy sounds of people moving quietly and distant birdsong disturbed the silence of his resting place.  Pendaran opened his eyes warily as he prepared once more to enter the waking world. 

There was pressure over his right hand where the harp key lay curled in his slack grasp.  Muted light bled through the cloth over his eyes.  Disoriented, he panicked, turning his head slightly so that the cloth shifted and he felt its cool dampness.

“It’s alright,” said a soft voice, the sweetest sound he had heard for a very long time, “Poor thing.  Your dreams must be so sad.”

“Who are you?” he attempted to ask, but his voice was stolen from him by long disuse.

“Brother Gao, he’s awake!” the woman cried, “Nandao? You there?”

Pendaran made a poor effort to lift his arm and thus remove the blindfold.  Pathetically weak, he could not even escape the tight press of the blankets.  Who were these people?  Where was he?  The ambient light that seeped through the cloth over his eyes grew dim as someone ordered the windows to be draped.  To his relief the thing was drawn aside, allowing him to gaze up at… Clarissa?

He blinked, annoyed that he was still trapped in a dream.  His vision was blurry and even with the windows covered, light burned his eyes.  He flinched away from the shadowy figures that flanked him and forced him to sit up.

“Easy,” the woman said, “You’re safe here, just relax.  We’ll get you some water and broth.”

“Who?” he breathed, unable to speak beyond a whisper as he was propped up against a mound of pillows and a blanket was tucked around his shoulders.  They did not appear to hear him and his vision was still clouded.  Where was he?  He had no memory of leaving the darkness of imprisonment.

The rim of a cool ceramic cup touched his lips as her arm and shoulder braced his head.  He surrendered, taking small swallows until the ache and dryness left his throat.  She was so tender in her ministrations that it drew tears to his eyes.  He could scarcely remember the last time someone had treated him so kindly and he had done so little to warrant it.   She set aside the empty cup and urged him to take several swallows of a warm bland broth.  His stomach protested, forgetting what it was meant to do with food.

“Not too much,” said a man’s voice, “Small portions or it will make him sick.”

“I’m going to help you lay back now,” she said softly, “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

Propped up on the pillows he sat there half-blind and weak as someone else poked and prodded him, taking pains over investigating his eyes.

“Can you hear me, Pendaran?” asked the man’s voice, his hands still grasping Pendaran’s face although he could scarcely make out more than a blur of pale cloth and red smears.

“Yes.”

“I am Nandao, a servant of Dwayna.  Your vision should come back shortly, you just need to drink more water and take whatever food Teleri offers you.  Are you in any pain?   Does your head hurt?”

“No,” Pendaran rasped.  There was a mild ache behind his eyes and his head rang like the inside of a bell, “Was that Teleri who spoke to me before?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve been watching over you since we found you in that miserable hole.”

“Why?” he croaked, “I don’t deserve this.”

“When has that ever figured into anything?” Nandao laughed.

“After all you’ve been through to feel so undeserving of mercy or care,” Teleri said softly, her fingers sweeping aside his tears, “That is sad.” 

“Don’t press him to talk just now,” Nandao said, “He’s still very weak.”

“Would you like me to go?” she asked, withdrawing her touch, “I didn’t mean to force my attentions on you.”

Pendaran hesitated.  In another time and place he would have been angry that she presumed to help him.  After all, a man of his cleverness and spirit needed no one. 

But that path had lead to abandonment and emptiness.

“Stay, please,” he whispered, “I don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Teleri said.