Chapter Text
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-
Awareness comes back to you in drips and drabs; first you register the way that your entire body is aching, like it’s been pushed through a towel wringer at Mach speed. Next is the absolute desert that is your mouth; it’s so dry that you instinctively know that trying to swallow is going to be painful and your throat doesn’t feel like it’s in much better shape.
Then you start to feel a sort of harsh warmth over every inch of skin, and that’s enough for your eyelids to jolt open.
An empty, cloudless expanse greets you. Faintly, you can sort of hear the lapping of water close by your head over the pounding in your skull, like some overenthusiastic bellringer has set up shop in your brain. The air is heavy with a scent that you instinctively know to be rotting seaweed and it’s enough for your stomach to bubble with nausea.
Not wanting to vomit all over yourself, you start to sit up as best you can. It’s slow going because every single joint aches but you eventually manage. From your new vantage point, you can clearly see that you’re in a wooden boat- one that’s on a beach. That explains the smell.
Keep it together until I can stick my head over the side, you think at your body.
As you do just that, a sudden thought comes to you. Why…are you in a boat? You cast your mind back but come up empty-handed. No matter how hard you try to remember getting into it because you logically must have at some point, your mind simply draws a blank.
In fact, all of your mind seems to be blank; when you try to remember what it was you were doing before you got in the boat, your headache changes from ‘overenthusiastic bellringer’ to ‘someone is hammering nails into your skull.’ It’s enough for that nausea that’s been vaguely threatening until now to materialise, and you hurl over the side of the boat. The vomit burns your already painful throat and that combined with all of the other pain that you’re already feeling is enough to make black spots dance in your vision.
Everything hurts…why can’t you remember how you got here? Ugheoughhhhhhh…
Your muscles feel like lead and moving your heavy meatsuit of a body sounds impossible right now. Despite the way that the rim of the boat is digging into your ribs, surely, it’s not that bad of a place to just close your eyes for a bit? Just until you can actually get your bearings. Maybe once you’ve recovered a bit you’ll actually be able to remember things.
Yes, that sounds…like a good idea….
…
“Excusez-moi, ça va ? ”
You jolt awake at the sound of a nearby voice. Regret courses through you at the movement immediately as it causes several bones to audibly crack, which is followed by a fresh wave of pain.
“Oh mon Dieu!”
Once you’re able to focus beyond the haze that’s still over your mind like a thick fog, you see that two elderly people are peering at you from a short distance away, their expressions registering as somewhere between wariness and concern. One of them has a sword at their hip that you automatically know must be for channelling Craft.
The one that isn’t carrying a weapon gasps upon seeing your face. “Change, c'est un enfant !” The wariness immediately melts from their expression and they start to make their way over to you. Before you have the time to be properly panicked about that, the person’s movements are stopped by the placement of one of their sword-carrying companion’s hands on their arm.
“Attends un moment.” They murmur so lowly that you’re sure that you weren’t meant to hear it. Then to you they say: “Hé, toi dans le bateau. Où sont tes parents ? ”
You squint at them. You understood maybe two words of that.
“Ne soyez pas cruel! ” The first person rips their arm from their companion’s grasp and determinedly marches over to you, taking care not to step on too much of the undoubtedly slippery seaweed. Left behind, their friend watches with an expression like they’ve just sucked on a lemon but doesn’t make any more moves to stop them.
As they approach your heart begins to race with anxiety. Sure they didn’t seem hostile, but you’re in no condition to defend yourself right now. If they decided to hurt you all you’d be able to command your body to do in response is to flop over in agony, like a fish gagging on air.
Some of your thoughts must show on your face, because the person stops their approach and looks pained. They call something back to their companion and their expression shifts from suspicion to concern. When they turn to face you again they put their palms up placatingly, but it just makes you tense further, which your body vehemently protests against. Some people don’t need weapons to do Craft, so them showing you that they’re unarmed is entirely meaningless ; in fact, your mother could cast Paper Craft spells by putting her palms up, just like this stranger was doing.
Wait, your mother- ?
« « « «
You blink and the stranger is suddenly closer than they were a few seconds ago. They’ve got their palms up in a palacating gesture, but you know that some people can Craft without weapons. Your breathing starts to become shallow and quick as you eye their hands.
Apparently alarmed now, the stranger says something urgent to you, but you can’t understand it. They raise their hands up higher and you flinch bodily ; evidently your body has had enough of your nonsense, because it decides to just. Give out. You collapse heavily against the side of the vessel, arms dangling towards the sand.
Footsteps now, coming closer ; the sudden burst of adrenaline that gives you just enough strength to lift your head even if what you really want to do is scramble wildly like an animal.
Oh.
Both strangers are close now, enough to see the details of their faces. They’re both time-weathered, worry lines and crow’s feet lining their features. Their clothes are practical but nice to look at ; lots of different shapes and contrasting shades…something bothers you about that, but you don’t know why. The weaponless one makes an inarticulate noise when you make eye contact, then begins to speak rapid-fire. The other one just scowls at you and makes you want to turn into a bug so that you can scuttle and hide under a rock.
Your heart is still beating like it wants to escape from your rib cage and make a run for it, but all you can do is blink stupidly at them and try not to whimper in fear.
Eventually the serious one nudges the talkative one and says something. The talkative one jumps slightly but then looks at your face with more focus than before. Your eyes dart between them rapidly. What? What? You wish, more than anything, that you could understand the words that they’re using.
The two of them look at each other and seem to hold a silent conversation with just their expressions. You want to wail, scream at them. If you’re going to off me just do it already!! I can’t take much more of this.
With a sigh, the scowly one turns their body towards you fully and you brace yourself as best you can. The moment that they start to reach towards you, you strike…
Or try to. As you’d already known, you’re much too weak to do much more than flop over with a pained cry. You also get to feel incredibly dizzy for your efforts, what fun. In fact you… can ‘t feel much of anything beyond that, not even the side of the boat that you’re leaning against.
Not with a bang but with a movement and noise reminiscient of beached marine life, you pass out.
…
Wakefulness comes to you slowly. The gentle sound of waves kissing the shore sounds from nearby, soothing. Thoughts are difficult to grasp on to ; as soon as you have one, it’s whisked away like a piece of paper in a strong wind. You’re against something warm that’s moving in a rhythmic pattern. One-two, one-two, one-two…
Oh, you know where you are. You must have fallen asleep by the cliffs again. Drat, you were trying to be really careful not to do that anymore because Starlight has started to take your behaviour as permission to start doing it too. You’ll probably get scolded later…
“Baba, don’t you know that I’m too old for this now…” You mumble into your parent’s back, deciding to enjoy the time before that for now. The muscles under your face briefly stiffen before relaxing. You hum into the fabric of their shirt as sleep reclaims you.
…
For the third time that day to your knowledge, you wake up.
Your vision is blurry until you blink the sleep from your eyes, but you can already tell that this isn’t the boat. For one thing, whatever you’re lying on is very soft. For another, you don’t hurt nearly as much as you did before. Your headache has reduced massively into something manageable, and the painful dryness in your mouth and throat have entirely vanished. Unfortunately, your muscles still kind of feel like they hate you, but they’ve been reduced to quiet grumbling rather than the outright screaming they’d been doing earlier. Panic starts to set in, but before you can truly work yourself up-
“Tu es réveillé !”
Jumping at the sudden voice, you look wildly about for its source. Next to your bed sits a very professional-looking person dressed in what you vaguely recognise as a nurse’s uniform. They look a little apologetic, presumably for startling you, but waste no time in getting to work. Producing a thermometer from one of their pockets, they wave the end at your face and wait. A little awkwardly, you take the end into your mouth as you think about where you are now. What you can see of the ceiling above you is made of stone, with soaring arches. Light is spilling in from somewhere- if you could sit up, you’d probably see some massive windows that the high ceiling was built to accommodate.
Given the probable nurse who is patiently waiting for your temperature reading, it’s probably safe to assume that someone has brought you to an infirmary, since you certainly couldn’t have managed it by yourself. Mentally, you breathe a small sigh of relief despite the disorientation of waking up in a place that you don’t remember passing out in. The people in an infirmary are unlikely to want to hurt you.
…Right? Right.
Eventually the thermometer lets out a small ding! and you obligingly take it out of your mouth yourself to hand to the nurse. They nod at you, look at the reading and write something down on a clipboard. They make sure to smile at you afterwards, so hopefully you’re not about to develop rash and then explode or something.
Still smiling gently at you, they point to themselves and say: “Je m'appelle Chauntelle.”
Oh! You actually know those words. Unless you’re horrifically mistaken, they just introduced themselves to you. The polite response is…
“Ra…Ravi de…vous rencontrer.” Your tongue is slightly hesitant forming around the words, as if you haven’t said them in a long time but otherwise flow easily. It makes you pause.
When did you learn how to say that?
You’re distracted from pondering when the nurse’s face absolutely lights up and they begin talking at you excitedly, far too fast for you to catch any words that you understand. Eventually they catch the confusion on your face and deflate a little, but they rally and point at you expectantly.
You stare at them blankly for a few seconds before it clicks. They’re asking for your name, stupid! Obviously.
Flushing, you open your mouth to introduce yourself, but-
There’s nothing there.
You blink, confused, and reach for your name, but there’s nothing. Your mind draws a blank, just like it did when you tried to remember how you ended up in the boat.
Distantly, you’re aware that you’re breathing is coming shallow and quick again. In your periphery, the nurse has started to look alarmed, but you can’t spare any thought for them right now.
Why don’t you know your own name?!
You reach back again, desperate, but all that does is increase your headache to a roaring crescendo. Ignoring it, you keep trying, never mind how the pain of it is making you see stars-
A light touch on your shoulder makes you scream.
It immediately leaves, but not before you see that the person who did it is one of the elderly strangers who found you on the beach. They’re gazing at you with eyes fairly bugging out of their head. The nurse is fluttering around them and pulling something from a drawer before hesitantly approaching you with it.
You stare blankly at the object in their outstretched hand for long enough that they reach forwards slowly, giving you enough time to see it coming and stop it if that’s what you wanted, and gently wipe your face with it. It’s only then that you register the coppery smell.
Ah, your face is bleeding. Specifically, from the nose. That explains it.
When you don’t protest the treatment, nurse Chauntelle wipes your face with a bit more confidence. After they’re finished, they murmur something to the elderly person and they say something back in a flat tone of voice that makes them flinch.
You wish, with a sudden desperation, that you could understand what they were saying. Have they figured out that you don’t know your own blinding name? Are they discussing how freakishly odd you are?
Their conversation is interrupted by a loud crashing sound. You’re getting sick of startling, especially since the movement still hurts you.
“Sont-ils réveillés ?!” A notably childish voice shouts, and it isn’t long before a tiny body runs into view. It is, predictably, a child, you’d guess about five to eight years old. They’re wearing shorts, a tee-shirt, and shoes that have tracked mud all the way over to your bed where they’ve come to a stop.
“Pétronille!” Chauntelle the nurse gasps, horror written in bold letters all across her face. The elderly person who still hasn’t introduced themselves turns to look and bursts out laughing.
The child, apparently Pétronille, scowls at both adults before marching over to you. Before you can process what’s happening, they’ve thrust a fistful of something in your face. “Pour vous ! Pour votre bien-être !”
Stunned, you lean back a little so that you can actually see that they’re…offering you? A fistful of weeds. They’ve still got dirt clinging to the roots. Some of it drops onto your blanket. The nurse is making inarticulate noises of scandalisation.
They’re kind of glaring at you, the child, as if daring you to not take their ripped-up plants. They needn’t have, because there’s only one response that you’d give such an earnest gift, anyway. With as much grace as you can muster, you gingerly reach out to take them.
“Thank you, kind one.” You murmur to them, despite knowing that they won’t understand. You hope that your smile gets the point across anyway.
Judging by the way that they beam at you toothily, it does. They say something else at you before dashing off, dodging the nurse’s attempts to make them stay, presumably so they can be scolded for the mess.
Ignoring them, you examine what you have in your hand. It’s just a bunch of random plants, but looking at them makes you feel such a powerful burst of fondness that it catches you off-guard. You didn’t think you were the type of person to feel that strongly about someone that you just met.
…But apparently you don’t know much of anything about yourself, do you?
A throat clears, and you look up to see that the elderly person has extended a hand out to you. When you just look at them uncomprehendingly, they glance meaningfully at the greenery in your hand and twitch their fingers.
“Get your own,” You hiss at them, twisting so that the plants are shielded by the curve of your body. The other raises your eyebrows at you in surprise but shrugs and withdraws their hand.
Threat averted, you take the time to examine what exactly you’ve been given. It’s literally just a clump of random plants, but a fluffy looking one catches your eye. Separating it from the rest with your other hand, you peer at it.
Objectively, it’s not anything special. It’s just a plant. But it’s making you feel warm, like you’ve just been given a comforting hug.
You wish that you had the words to thank Pétronille for their gift.
As soon as you think that some sort of instinct guides you to place the plant in front of your mouth and blow as hard as you can. Little seeds flow from the plant on your breath and float all over the infirmary.
Out of nowhere, your nostrils are assaulted by the scent of something sickly sweet, like someone’s shoved a bouquet of rotting roses under your nose.
“Hm. I don’t think Chauntelle is going to thank you for that.”
It takes a few seconds, but when it finally registers that you understood that you can’t help but gape at the stranger sitting by your bedside. They raise their eyebrows at you in response, unimpressed.
“What, do I have something on my face?”
“I, um, no.” The words fall from your mouth in a stutter, but the other sits up straight in surprise. Something twists inside your stomach.
“Ah, so you can speak Vaugardian. That’ll make things a lot easier. My name is Louis Alviers, and my pronouns are he/him. My partner and I found you passed out in a boat and brought you here.”
Oh, well. That’s good to know. Now you’ll be able to stop calling them “elderly person” in your head.
“And where is here?” Your voice is a little raspy, but it doesn’t sound any different to you than it did before. Really, what’s going on? You know that you didn’t miraculously learn an entire language in the space of a few seconds.
Ignorant of your little freak-out, Louis continues: “You’re in the infirmary of La Celle-Saint-Cloud’s House of Change, six miles from Bambouche and twenty from Arras. You’ve been asleep for over twenty-four hours. We were all very worried about you.”
Even though the last part of that sentence makes you feel some illogical guilt -no one forced them to bring you here,- you focus on the other parts. La Celle-Saint-Cloud. Bambouche. Arras. Not one of them sounds even remotely familiar, though… You clench your fists from where they’re still under the sheets, probably making little half-moon indents into your palms. Perhaps you should have expected that by now.
When it becomes apparent that you’re not doing to respond, Louis huffs a little and continues, gently: “Listen. I know being in a strange new place must be scary, but we can help you get home! I happen to be the Head Housemaiden here, you know; I have a lot of sway.” That ending of his sentence is punctuated with a wink and conspiratorial smile, as if he’s letting you in on a secret.
Something sticky is on your hands.
Home? Home?!
How can you go home when you don’t even know your own blinding n a m e?! When you can’t remember where you were before the boat?! You don’t know where home is!
“Hey, woah, take it easy-“
“Monsieur! Are you upsetting my patient?”
Unnoticed by either of you Chauntelle has returned, having failed at capturing Pétronille judging by the muddy handprints all over their nurse’s uniform. They glare at Louis balefully.
“I didn’t mean to-“ He glances at your face and sighs instead of finishing his sentence. There’s a few audible bone cracks as he stands and says: “It seems it’s best if I take my leave for now. How about you rest and I’ll speak with you later, hm? Chauntelle.” With that parting acknowledgement he strides from the room far more smoothly than you’d expect from someone whose body makes noises like that.
“Really, that man.” The nurse grumbles, gesturing for you to lean forwards so that they can fluff your pillow. “He didn’t even have any bedside manner when he was young, you know.”
Belatedly you realize that they must still think that you can’t understand them and are saying things within your hearing that they ordinarily wouldn’t. You can’t bring yourself to care.
You take in the high ceilings once more, the cheery windows letting in copious amounts of light. Louis and his ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
What’s there to talk about? You have nothing. Not even a name. Do you even exist, if you don’t have something as simple as that?
…
You need to get out of here.