NOTES: Originally posted elsewhere 2-3-2016. I do actually write stories about things other than people coming back from the dead. It's not my fault Uncle George practically wrote an engraved invitation. ;-) My apologies for the FF.N formatting. As always, any thoughts or comments are greatly appreciated, and cause me to make embarrassing noises you thankfully don't have to hear.

Afterimage 1/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)

"He was as much himself again as he ever would be, and yet that 'self' would never be the same again for now he knew the meaning of fear as it defines itself in its most violent form, that is, fear of the death of the beloved, or the loss of the beloved, the loss of love."
-Angela Carter, Nights At the Circus

"It is natural that a dead man's scream should give horror, for it is obviously not a pleasing or ordinary occurrence."
-H.P. Lovecraft, "Hebert West: Reanimator"

No memories present themselves when awareness comes to her, and even fewer impressions follow her out of the depths from which she is expelled. All is blank; not darkness, but absence- the color of 'no more', of 'not'. She does not even think in words, for none are at her disposal. Abstract patterns of sentience linger; so she understands that she is a singular conscious entity, and that her state of being is now suddenly radically different from whatever came
(a lifetime, a moment, a deathless heartbeat)
before.

With this new perception carries an agony that is intense but directionless. She cannot identify the source or imagine what form relief would take, and so the pain just is. Concrete, immutable. Omnipresent. What has changed is her perception, which now registers light and temperature where once existed something diametrically opposed, but which she has also already forgotten. She has eyes, breathes air, is capable of hearing.
The first thing to reach her ears is the sound of her own screaming.

It goes on for some time, because she cannot remember how to stop and the pain of being doesn't give her much room to contemplate an answer. Her surroundings are bright, too bright, and *wrong*. Desperate, she tries to block the light; discovers she has hands, and is discomforted by this fact. There are other sounds nearby, perhaps even another mass or living creature, but she cannot be bothered with it at present. She is
(alive, i am alive again)
not supposed to be here, must go back to what came before. Which, at least, did not include this pain.

She is stung by something; it releases in her a white wave that smothers much of the physical agony. The air itself feels heavy, lethargic, and she no longer has the energy to scream. Her hands are drawn away from her face, at which point she realizes the intolerable assault on her vision is also finished.

Words come to her at last, revealed slowly from beneath a great blankness as if they, like she, have risen from great depths. 'Darkness' is the name for the mercy on her senses. 'I' is herself, the singularity experiencing these things. She flexes the hands she can no longer see- fingers, thumbs, the muscles of the arms she had thrust up before her. All of these things have more than one sound, or set of sounds, associated with them. Some glide, some cluster together, and others have no direct equivalency or exchange. Once more, her hands fly up, this time to her skull

(skull, navit, head, lybbkh, antor, cranium...)

as if to ensure this flood of multi-textured thinking has no shattered the vessel it fills.

Without her screams to rend it, the air around her produces other sounds. Dripping, humming, and something far closer, which her mind tentatively identifies as a roar.

(roar; being, predator, wampa, ronto, wookie, tantaun, krayt dragon...
or thunder; xia'den, ocean, theed, waves, waterfall...)

Groaning, she lets her fingers tangle in the mass they find (hair, that is her hair) and pull, pull as she is being torn, bowing under the pressure of words and sounds in the dark. The strange accompaniment continues- whir, hiss; whirr, hiss. In and out. Waves?

No. There is some other thing here with her. Pressure on her wrists brings them down and away from the pain she was trying to get lost in. Other hands, like hers but far larger and more solid.
(wrists, cuffs, bracelets, binders, chains)
And still, that sound.

Her body- and it is her body, the ambulatory notion of 'I'- is cold and wet, wrapped or entangled in some texture. She fights it, for the very air hurts her skin, and tries to think of some way to communicate this distress other than screaming. Her tongue writhes (shyoibe, zhbart?), searching.
The first word she says is, "Help."

"I am here," says the thing in the dark. The voice has a deep and foreign quality, full of disquiet and carnivorous loss, but it also strikes within her some faint empathetic cord. She feels it in her bones and shudders. This, at least, results in action. The other lifts her from the cold, wet surface and into its arms. Instinctively, she grasps against the form for purchase. Her companion is solid, hard, and smooth. Assuming- for no particular reason- that it is roughly similar to herself, she settles on its shoulders, for she can see nothing now in the pitch black relief.

It must see, for it moves with assurance, taking several large strides before depositing her elsewhere. The attempt to help her stand fails, but the creature is careful to provide enough support that the betrayal of her legs does not result in a fall. Her fingers cling to the oddly smooth shoulder with its regular, blunted ridges. When her arm encircles the other being's neck, she finds still another rounded edge pressing into her skin. Always, always that roaring sound, close to her ear. It's like something trapped
(a shell, the sound of the ocean imprisoned in a shell)
yet more regular even than the tide.

"Come." It guides her to sit in a basin- quite a large one, from the trajectory of the cool tile against her back. She kicks her legs, weak though they may be, trying to free herself from the constricting material still clinging to her form. Seeing or somehow sensing this, those large hands take hold about the neck of the garment, tearing it away. Thus divested she curls inward, knees to breast, in that instinctive motion to cover oneself.

"It is well." The voice, its narrow allowance for feeling and timbre, chills the part of her beating wildly within.
Dhmei; her heart.

In the cavernous voids of her mind, empty halls with a growing litter of words, memory stirs weakly. Not even a ghost, but rather
(a demon, a usurper; grave worm, feasting on what's left)
a shadow of one. Absence as observed in a mirror. The sound of this voice both attracts and repels her, like a familiar melody transposed into some outré key. To combat this notion, she physically shies away, feeling that this presence must be predatory. Masculine, as well- she is almost certain of that, though the reasoning is as unclear as her own assumption of femininity.

"You are safe," he says firmly. Though she nods and does not repulse the single finger that touches her cheek, she does not for one moment believe him.

"E1O," he calls, with no increase in volume but a definite change in tone. "Assist your mistress." It takes a moment, and the ensuing sound of pressurized gears, for her to assign meaning to these words and realize he is addressing someone else. Something else, for her initial perception of only one other presence is indeed correct. At his command, the lights return in far more subdued degrees. It is more like
(fire; the glow of the lava made things change color, for *surely*...)
candlelight, or the gas-globes of-

The thought is gone, slipping through her mental grip with nary a ripple in its wake. She lets it go, gladly, glancing up at the mechanized servant- robot- only briefly. There is another word for these beings which are not organically animate, but she is too exhausted and overwhelmed to search for it. It is silver, with blue glowing bulbs set into its vague suggestion of a face.

"Lean forward, please," it says with a pleasant but inflectionless voice. The pitch is not obviously gendered, though it edges towards the feminine and makes her faintly nervous. It seems too obvious an effort to soothe, and she frowns at the cynicism of the thought.

Craning her neck a little, she tries to peer over the rim of the large cistern in which she has found herself. The droid ('that's the word, she thinks, and is unaccountably pleased) picks its many-angled digits through her locks, combing a mass of dark hair that tumbles in wet, clinging tendrils well past her waist. She cannot see her erstwhile guardian, though his presence is obvious from the continued hiss and intake.
'Breathing,' she thinks, wondering why she didn't realize it sooner. It's so painfully regular, though! Not the slightest variation as it cycles through, so heavy and ponderous as to deny the very concept of interruption.

Staring down into the bottom of the basin, she makes another unpleasant discovery. The wetness she had previously registered on her skin is also viscous, and faintly blue. Almost as soon as she begins testing the texture with her fingers, the droid- Ee-One-Oh - begins gently rinsing her down with the stream from a length of hose. All of these things- the bright light, the tile, the strange smells, and actions of the droid- give her the strong if unformed impression of palliative care. Is she ill, the tenant of some hospital? The blue substance (gel... bacta?) comes off easily enough, collecting in small globules at her feet before being pulled down the drain. The warm water feels good as it sluices against her skin, but the sensation is still overwhelming.

The knowledge that all of this input was nonexistent, even impossible, a very short time ago fills her with vertiginous alarm. Awareness hurts, it is... foreign. She is certain, in that superstitious sub-language of ineffable strangeness, that she never stopped existing, but knows also she has agonizingly changed (resumed?) form. The feeling is intensely oppressive, making her watchful, as one who is simultaneously guilty and unjustly pursued. Pitching forward so quickly that even the droid makes a sound of alarm, she catches herself on both palms and retches. There's nothing to expel save a little of the faint blue morass, which must have crept into her lungs and stomach. The feel of it in her mouth is so unwholesome that she moans after spitting it out. The droid, having remained still, tilts the spray a little so it continues to trickle through her hair. One or two white objects circle the drain, so small she's impressed when she's able to pluck one up before it disappears.

Marble pale, petaled. A flower, which some odd chain of association reminds her can also be called 'phaa'. Her thoughts are not entirely articulate yet, despite the increasing vocabulary at her disposal. Many of these myriad words seem prone to clump together, though she is not certain she has matched like with like. Languages- many of them, creating a constant background hum which almost blots out the other, obscurely dangerous rhythm.

Almost- but not entirely.

The flower distresses her, though she form no concrete association. With a little cry, she flings it away, and instantly hears him come closer. Despite her earlier efforts to catch a glimpse of her only companion, every instinct now tells her to look down. She turns her head towards at him only when a large, black hand places itself once more on her shoulder.
It is only some deep core of willfulness- stubbornly reformed into reticence- that prevents her from crying out again.

He is towering, enormous; as overwhelming as his essential presence betrayed, even in the dark. Perhaps he was even larger there, being a constituent of that remorseless void. A being carved of ebony, armored entirely with no flesh to be seen; all ferociously polished shoulders, breast-plate, and helmet. The eyes are darkness, too; convex and set into something so starkly representative of a skull that it is terrifying in its very artifice. She makes certain her own shudder of fear is entirely internal, for it seems her initial impression was correct. A predator, indeed- and of the most erudite order. Not as large- and certainly not as slavering- as those of the wild, but never the less a creature at the apex of any given hierarchy. Coiled, waiting, with an agile practicality and a seamless cunning. A chameleon of danger, possessed of too many angles and avenues of attack.

She stares at the arm- with its integument of tiny, pressure-sealed mail- extended towards, her, and the ponderous hand against her own pale skin. The droid emits a high-pitched squeak when he bats it entirely out of the way, but every action towards her is deliberately cautious. He is attempting to offer comfort, she realizes at last- the purpose of the gesture would have been immediately apparent from any other creature. He, however, has not been made- shaped, from blasphemous obsidian- for such things. Its incongruous, but there is some obscure kernel of truth that calls to an answering seed within herself. For a moment, she wonders if she perhaps expected some other face in particular, though her mind conjures only a
(fiery)
monochrome blank. Surely... surely someone else is here, another presence she senses hovering precarious, tenaciously refusing dismissal in a way the droid never could. The sense of this identity is powerful, though she knows instantly that breaking eye-contact to look for such a being would be very unwise.
Her eyes prick with tears.

"What pains you?"

While her lips move easily, dredging up a sound to accompany them is a frustrating and unpleasant task. She feels the weight of it almost as some crushing force braced against her body; she understands him, recognizes that the words are all of the same subset, but is by no means certain her response would be intelligible to him. Assuming she could form one at all. Doubt stirs- did she really speak earlier, or was it only a thought amplified by her distress?

In lieu of speech, she instead spreads her hands to show their emptiness and shrugs her shoulders in a motion predating verbal expression. What can be said, at any rate? She has no particular wounds and no idea of the path that has brought her to this place. It is everything that pains her, and yet nothing concrete. Embodiment is agonizing; the remorseless, abrasive slide of reality.

His only response is to brush a wet lock of hair away from her face before drawing back once more. Rather than tracking his movements -she shudderingly half-suspects he may have become one again with the darkness- she turns her attention back to the vertical, handle-like railings on the side of the tub.

The stream of warm water has ceased and, while she is still dizzy, a definite goal has formed in her mind. Small, yes, but she is discovering she dislikes being forced to inaction, even by some malady. Placing her hands on the top curvature of each rail, she flexes her fingers repeatedly until, at last, she can form a fist. Firmer, firmer now. Dragging in a deep breath, she exerts every ounce of her will. A guttural moan escapes as she hauls herself up; it sounds foreign to her own ears, calling to mind a battle cry, and an image.

(Two swords of polished steel, crossed protectively. A crest, a pattern on a flag. 'This,' a voice says, as a finger traces along the golden embroidery. That is the one that I want. 'Dala- for my reign name.')

The memory seems to fall apart at even the suggestion of clarity and she lets it go, instead uttering a muted sound- part triumph, part sheer surprise- when she realizes her success. She is standing upright- legs trembling, arms braced, but she has balance. The droid emits a few high-pitched notes of terror and then floats towards her with more conciliatory beeping. A pair of its numerous appendages drape a towel carefully about her shoulders, and it wisely scuttles away when the tall, dark form returns.

"You must not strain yourself," he tells her, and she cannot help but dart a quick glare at the blank, socket-like eyes of the mask. She will stand if she wishes. The sonorous voice continues, "You may be weak for some time."

Is that a statement, or a response to her displeasure? She cannot tell, there is so little inflection. When she begins attempting-somewhat clumsily- to dry herself with the cloth, he does not take it from her, instead slipping an indomitable arm around her waist for support. The gesture is at once oddly fluid and completely jarring; the motion and the creature are incompatible. Desperate to maintain this small foothold (indeed, it seems verticality is exhausting), she avails herself of the aid, trusting it no more or less than the rail. With his free hand, he holds out a covered cup, and she sees also that some other material is folded over his arm. At first, she drinks what he's given her greedily, but slows as the repellant not-taste of the thick liquid finally registers. It does soothe her throat, however, and she murmurs experimentally to herself. The droid, giving its shadowy master wide berth, flits over briefly to take the towel and cup.

Because he makes no issue of her nudity, she follows suit, though her hand creeps down once or twice to find the flat surface of her stomach. The action feels habitual but- like so much else- flees the moment she tries to examine it. Her legs are only slightly more cooperative than her mind, functioning only under protest, and he will not release her until she has both hands back on the rails. Combing through the seemingly endless tangle of sounds ringing their distant associations and muscle-memories in her throbbing head, she locates something she hopes she can express. And that he will understand.

"Th-" she swallows hard to clear her weak throat, but manages, "K. Y'h."

In this, at least, it seems her judgement is sound. After a moment of motionlessness punctuated only by the cycle of his breathing, that dark voice intones, "Do not thank me."

While not angry, there is a sharpness and a sense of... withdrawal to the statement that makes her tilt her head questioningly. Those polished, blank eyes of ebony reflect back at her two dark twins, miniatures which seem surprisingly clear. It wets her curiosity considerably- indeed, will her own face even be familiar?- but she shrinks from the idea of examining her image in its current medium. A... (she fumbles, breathes once sharply in victory) glass, a mirror, may warp, but at least it betrays where it lacks objectivity. To be seen through him before she sees herself, however...

The shudder that wracks her form next is powerful, a cord of multiple discomforts. Her current contemplations, the powerful angles of reality, and a third thing- the last so paltry and elemental she almost laughs at herself. She is cold. Physically cold; something she did not know was separate from the chill of _self_ until this body- her body- reminded her.

Flesh and sinew have their own histories, imprints of repeated action and half-conscious habit. The instinct to combat the cold by embracing herself is exactly that, but it proves to be more than her precarious balance can tolerate. She does manage to right herself this time, shrugging away the assisting hand with an imperiousness she recognizes only after the fact. The apologetic look she turns on her companion seems equally lost in the great expanse carved non-expression. Light as it travels, unimpeded yet also unheeded, through the absolute voice of space. Yet she can feel the weight of his gaze on her, and cannot help but search for some sign, some cue to interpret in that obsidian
(death god)
idol's face.

The maelstrom of words and ideas battering her mind is strong but she knows, in that same manner of bodily memory, that they are not quite the most important facet of communication. The most obvious, yes; she can feel her own thoughts gaining clarity and definition as she utilizes them even within. The sounds and symbols trap each flicker of impulse and feeling, like bottled lightning, making it possible to organize experience. Yet a glance, a quirk of the lips, the creased brow, or minute shift in stance- these she knows, before she can wield words or even understand herself, are key. It is the language of the unspoken, and what it conveys can be as mercurial as the emotions behind it.

('And as traitorous,' whispers something less than a voice. A catechism, repeated over and over by many different tones. 'Beware those who would read your heart by your face.')

Her own face feels slack, strange, as she turns her gaze inward to follow half-impressions of white powder, a careful slash of red, and hours practicing the affectation of serenity, if not serenity itself. They mean nothing; disconnected pieces that imply only a shameful lack of composure in some final confrontation... things she should have said, should have done...
All of this, lost in a liquid blaze.

She must be sorely out of practice at inscrutability, for he sees something in her face while she has only the stiffening of his posture to go by. How is it he appears even more angular than before?

"What is it you remember?" he intones, allowing no possibility for refusal.

Stubbornly, she gestures at the cloth still held folded over his arm. She is cold, yes, but he is watching her also- avid to the point of palpability. The cover she wants is less for chill or embarrassment than it is simply because she does not wish to feel that gaze pressing against her flesh.

For a long moment, he stares at her with not the slightest tilt of helmet or flex of gauntleted hand. She jerks her chin up, motions again while clinging desperately to the railing with her other hand.

A sound issues forth over the dirge metronome of his breathing, taking her aback. It will be some time before she learns to recognize the sound for what it is; his only means, truncated divorced from common understanding, of indicating amusement. Just an irregular explosion of sound- not even a mangled chuckle so much as a bark of surprise. For now, she must set it aside with all the other mysterious details she has so far encountered. Besides, the sound is quickly followed by something more unfathomable still.

"Yes, my lady," says the tomb caryatid. He hold the garment- a robe of heavy, crushed and shimmering fabric- out to her, settling it about her shoulders so she might shrug into it with out losing her balance. "My apologies. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable."

Uncertain but having received her request, she attempts to complete the trade with the first words that come to mind. "Nihilam; nihilfit." Nothing; too much. "Fire."

Her lips shape the words easily enough. It is volume she lacks, a force to propel her sentiments into the void between them. One of these words is not suited to its companions, but she cannot quite be troubled to determine the outlier. At any rate, he may be possessed of just as many conflicting sounds and meanings as she is. For a moment, despite the terror of his form, she envies him his solidity, his definition. She has only

(just returned)

recently woken, consciousness wending through her body like thick, milky mist. A drapery over a peerless river, obscuring jewel-toned carnival lights until they look like the haloed ancestors in the high ceilings of... No, her mind is torpid, dark waters too thick to form waves. It will have no part in steady reflection. She sways a little, lets such vague impressions flee in favor of righting herself. Whether he understanding everything or not, her shadowy companion reads her body language with ease.

"Come," he says, and puts frighteningly powerful hands upon her waist to lift her out of the basin. She braces her hands against his shoulders automatically and, when her feet touch the floor, resists his attempts to do anything other than place a supporting arm under her own. Her feet are bare against this new surface which- aside from being cold- is smooth and metallic, offering little in the way of purchase. Still, she will walk while she can manage, though she already knows her remaining endurance is insufficient to avoid denting her pride.

'Am I a prideful person, then?' she wonders, finding no edges by which to match this notion to memory- no way to prove or disprove. She knows, however, that she will do as much as she can for herself. Anything else seems... unwise. It's a feeling hardly limited to her strange comrade. Once more, she thinks of sentient expression, and how the eye instinctively strives to divine the motivations behind it.

He bids the door open with an imperious wave of his hand, resulting in a relentless cascade of light so intense she flinches instinctively away, towards him, trying to hide her face. Closer, closer; he shields her with his cape, and she catches a hint of his true scent. Armorial, unsurprisingly- metallic, but also ruthlessly clean, and faintly coppery

(red, as when they tell you to bite your tongue; reds as robes of state, or that which spills forth upon the battlefield)

despite all that. She blinks furiously, marveling a little at his silent unmoving patience. At last, the illumination ins't quite as painful and, at her vague but affirmative murmur, they begin moving down the long gray hall. The droid hovers a respectful distance behind them, apparently cowed into silence by its master's earlier displeasure.

There are few doors to mark the corridor's lateral terrain. Few seams exist, even in the walls of concrete, durasteel, or... there is something else, some other alternative that brings to the hum of engines and the memory of waves, but the associations refuse to connect. She's tapping the dregs of her reserves now, mind foundering, and knows she must ration accordingly. Having found no point of reference for the eye, she concentrates her gaze on her own feet, cautiously planning each step. If her willfulness annoys or inconveniences the other, he says nothing, his own invariable ocean roar trailing behind them as surely as his cape. She cannot escape the sight of his boots beside her own bare toes- and they are not boots, once the eye has more than a moment for study. The appendages were cast as such, certainly, but even the most clever of molds cannot duplicate the true depth of buckles and layers of leather encasing flesh and blood. Those are his legs, bare but inviolate. He might walk

(through fire, the terrible choking fire that composes sea and sky)

over hot coals and not notice.

Though she falters not in the slightest, she is struck once more by the fear that she is, in fact, the only form of organic sentience in... whatever environment this may be. There's a stark terror in that notion, held at bay by the persistence of instinct. Her dark guardian is a made thing- that is becoming increasingly clear- but that does not necessarily preclude being alive. The constituent parts...

She does stumble now, her already recalcitrant legs giving violent protest at last. Quick on the heels of embarrassment comes a deep sense of torpidity and dismay- almost despair. Each passing moment feels like crushed glass scraping against her skin. As if the passage of time has been so alien to her previously that she now feels it as an affront to her senses. Even without clear memory, languages and vocabulary in horrendous disarray, she knows this is unnatural. What if such agony is part of this new place, if it never stops? All at once, the only solution seems to involve laying down on the cold

(stone walkways in a stone necropolis)

floor. A marionette, robbed of impetus, just a wet bundle of hair and dark

(she cannot even remember the name of the rich color now. how useless!)

robe. Curled in this heap, she will simply wait and hope for a reversion to her previous state.

The will in her, finely wrought but strong, responds sluggishly. Vehement, yes, but not quite as quick as her companion, who swiftly scoops her up with a decisive lack of comment. Articulate silence (or near silence); 'you've had your way, now I'll have mine'. The fluidity of motion clearly shows how little effort it costs him. He holds her against his armored chest as if she weighs nothing. Maybe that's true- she certainly feels weightless, or perhaps merely light-headed. Her awkward relation to- and reluctance to look at- his automaton's face leaves her staring at the metal chains which serve as a clasp for his cloak and the few indicator lights against which her own body is pressed. She counts these, studies their shape to banish the sense of both disorientation and her own passivity.

('Singular focus,' some diffuse memory advises her now. An older woman's voice- not stern, but possessed of expectations. 'Pick a spot, anchor your gaze. It will decrease the dizziness. Begin again.)

'I already have done,' she thinks, rather incoherently. 'I am tired, no more.' Nausea fills her- or rather, the direct opposite of ravenous hunger, with its insistence on survival. While no noise escapes that she is aware of, the shadow creature seems to sense her distress. Rather than voicing an inquiry, he merely increases his pace, moving one gauntleted hand to shield her eyes. He strides his impossibly long strides down the hall; he carries her, he breathes. How exhausting that must be! Every living thing breathes, of course, but to be so aware of it... She finds herself fighting to force some syncopation into her own respiration, it avoid matching that dreadful regularity.

At last, they reach a door whose opening hiss at least provides some punctuation beyond the constant respiratory tide. He's shortened their journey considerably; he must cross whole wastelands with no more than a few strides. The light within is perhaps as bright as the hall, but more diffuse. It has a roseate glow, issuing as it does from two pairs of crystalline spheres, held out from either wall by by thick candelabrum stems and very clearly out of place. The rest of this cubist's paradise- or what little she's seen of it- is far too pragmatic to tolerate even this small luxury. It repudiates delicate lighting and smooth curves, though both are clearly in evidence.

There is little in the room itself; sway-backed chair, table, a seemingly endless phalanx of monitors against the the far wall, and a bed set niche-style into the bulkhead. All the edges are rounded in way that brings to her mind a medicinal, recuperative function- mindful of the dangers in merely walking, in getting out of bed. Though it spares her eyes, the rosy glow does little to actually soothe, suggesting cavernous depths to the room, rather than making the space seem intimate or welcoming.

He lays her carefully on the bed, which is the only other object in the room with any true distinguishing marks. Piled high with thick blankets and furs, it embraces her with an enticing and lethargic indifference. She can even make out a faint pattern in the top-most monochrome quilt; small flowers with rich, over-bearing leaves. At the sight of this, she is able to recall the name of the color of her robe. 'Green', vehm; emerald, the hue of shadowy forests whose boughs shelter deeper pools. She allows herself to feel accomplishment about this, even as she frowns at her guardian. While not fussing, precisely, he does take care to ensure she's situated. It's jarring, but perhaps it is only noticeable because his form so negates compassion; the courtesy is so unexpected that it undertakes inaccurate proportions.

He stands to his full height, and she thinks she must seem to him like some exotic little curio, safely tucked in its drawer. While she cannot be certain she is holding his gaze, she is also careful not to look completely away from the mask. The air of expectancy she feels must not be solely of her imagination for, at last, he speaks again. There is a slight alteration in his stance, a shifting of weight, as if he lingers in spite of his own better judgement. It occurs to her that she may seem equally as alien and unpredictable to him, though that's difficult to imagine and doesn't feel quite right. Yet here she is, half-damp and shivering, like a being hauled ashore in a net.

He says, "Do you remember your name?"

It isn't a question, though it tries to be one right down to the upward inflection. That voice has not been made for interrogatives- indeed, for anything other than command, demand. Subtle loopholes in linguistics are out of the question.

'Phaa,' she thinks, recalling those disturbing, fleshy little white blossoms she'd found in her hair. 'Flower', yes; but when the sound is spoken with a different emphasis with the tone in a different range, she remembers now that it is also the word for something white and cold, not living- 'snow'. This, the tongue which comes to her most readily, is a language dedicated to vagaries of meaning.

Her fingers twitch, as if trying to trace some form she cannot quite visualize, and must achieve via instinct alone. She cannot quite follow this through, and is forced to shake her head faintly against the pillow.

"Do not concern yourself," he says, as if they are discussing a bruise or minor cut. "These things will come to you in time.

A terrifying statement. With one last phantom touch to her hair and an odd adjustment of blankets, he leaves her to contemplate these words. The droid hovers- bustles, almost- to her bedside; applying thin, circular monitoring patches to her wrists, as well as a needle and associated tube to her right arm. Clear, faintly greenish liquid begins flowing through. It's going in, not out, and she wonders vaguely if she should panic.

But no. 'In time' is such a weighted phrase, and she knows that in whatever... else-place she came from, chronology was not a consideration. He won't be sending her back- something she finds unfortunate after a moment's consideration. She would not object if he did.

Her companion has busied himself with studying the monitors, ramrod-straight in his baring now that he is several arm-lengths away. Behind his void outline, flickering displays show variegated read outs, uneven bars, lines and arrays of numbers, some of which flash in red. Even when he orders Ee-One-Oh away, he does to turn back to her. Abashed, perhaps, for having tucked her in like a child? Incongruous, impossible! It may be that projecting emotions on this ambulatory monolith is only slightly more futile (not to mention more intimidating) than analyzing her own feelings.

Eyelids fluttering, she watches his shape blur. The lassitude flowing through her is winning, especially now that her fight is little more than perfunctory. All the same, she must keep him in sight. He will only be more dangerous if he is allowed to merge back into his native darkness. And besides, he is the only company she has.

The words coming to her have multiplied exponentially, concepts and descriptions begetting more more via association. It's like fleeing down the stairways of some cavernous antechamber, only to discover that they go up and sideways, and that the floor you seek may in fact be the ceiling. She has no doubt he is correct- her name will come to her in time. Soon. Even now, she can almost see the fine black strokes, two complex symbols which- by virtue of defining her- were the first she ever learned in that other time. Though still a void

(or rather an echo chamber, whose depths remain unknown)

it seems more conceivable now that she does in fact have an existence to recall.

Her very flesh oppresses her; she is not sure she wants this fact of being back. Still, she struggles to stay awake, and flinches when he turns back to her with needle in hand.

"You must rest," he says, seemingly having read her expression. Which is funny, because her face feels to her like frozen porcelain. She's in no state to struggle, much less stand any chance of delaying the inevitable. To distract herself, she notes the implications of the statement. Whatever she was doing before, it obviously wasn't resting. There's a little pinch; an additional, artificial calm rolls through her like veils of rain in high mountain lakes. Combined with her own exhaustion, it is too thick to resist; she is lost in it. No firm point of reference, just shadow flitting, shrouded by fog until that too is lost in darkness.

She has no idea how long she sleeps. Lightless waves lap upon lightless shores, a no-where kingdom in which all memory is- and must remain- forbidden. Distressed, she thrusts an arm out to shield herself from all this negation. Though she senses the motion echoing in the physical world, she cannot quite extricate herself from the treacherous shadow of dream.

The waves are louder now, a squall.

In the midst of this, she feels one great, ponderous hand take her own.

.

END NOTES:
[+] As far as I know, there are no canon examples of the native language of Naboo. Of course, I haven't been exposed to the EU, so I may be wrong about that. If there's a resource out there for it, please don't hesitate to let me know. For the time being, there are words in the text intended to be Nubian/other languages Padme may have been exposed to. They should be few, with fairly obvious meanings... I hope. ^_^''