CHAPTER V — I’VE GOTTA WAIT FOR YOU DIE YOUNG Sleep was never an issue for Aderith, even through her recovery. It always came to her swiftly, bringing an intense feeling of warmth and safety. The Stromic woman had never been one for nightmares, only haunted by them in times of intense stress while her mind worked things out in overtime, so thankfully only the first few weeks of her stay in Elwynn forest were plagued by bad dreams. Months later, when Leiona departs to drink with the other priests, no real nightmares itch the inside of Addy’s skull. Instead, phantoms drift just out of reach. (1, 2, 3, 4)
She remembers a beautiful man with silver hair who tasted like arcane and made her soul ache. His face is hard to place, ever-changing and vague in detail. Feminine and masculine features blend and slide across a pale visage. The lips always curl upward into a smile that both comforts and chills the Strom. One moment, he wears heavy plate armor. The next, his garb is heavy cloth.
A hollow sadness weaves through Aderith. She finds herself standing in front of him, her left arm lofted and fingers reaching - hand lit with swirling, shimmering purple flame. Before the half-elf’s fingers can reach Addy, he vanishes. More than anything, Aderith takes away a healthy dose of frustration and a soft panic at the back of her brain.
He was important, and she cannot remember him. Not his face, not his name.
The blonde is not afraid. Not really. Confusion replaces terror, discomfort blooms instead of anxiety. Fuzzy scenes play out in front of her, settings twisting and turning like an abstract scenic painting - a dirty city pub, a half-dead forest, a rocking vessel with red and gold flags, long golden grasses, luxurious Gilnean architecture filled with expensive furniture, a place where everything was dark. Dark. Dark.
Darkness.
A whisper. The fields of blood, the fields of blood, the fields of blood.
Faces form and vanish, too fast to process fully. When Aderith turns, makes an effort to move as far from the unsettling rush of information, her feet seem rooted. She should know these people, but none of them ring a bell. Their names are all on the tip of her tongue, bundling together and creating a hot knot in her throat. Tears threaten to overflow past her waterline, breath fast and panicked - silent in the nothingness.
Saul and Rickard’s faces stall her panic. They linger, as if aware that they’ve been recognized, both massive men sliding thick arms around Aderith’s back. She has never forgotten them, her brothers, their identical shapes are always easy to conjure. Even after Argus, they were guaranteed. Their presence slows her breathing. Rickard brings his hand up to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. Saul pinches her the naked underside of her arm. Annoying.
There is a certain degree of incompleteness that still unsettles Aderith, despite the presence of the Stromic duo. A gnawing knowledge that while her brothers complete a set of sorts, she is a ghost lacking a similar reflection. Even as Addy flashes on the homestead, her father and mother’s faces early in the morning before their first meal of the day, there is an empty seat, the bed beside her own in their lofty attic bedroom vacant.
Her breath quickens. Left in the darkness, the blonde fishes for the answer. Just like the identities of her earlier visitors, it sits at the front of her mouth and refuses to gather into a complete thought. Instead, a loneliness spreads across her insides from a deep place inside of the Stromic woman. A missing piece. Frustrated, Aderith balls her fingers into her palms. In the blackness, there is nothing to destroy. Teeth grit together hard, making her head pound.
In the far distance, another large shape approaches her at an almost impossibly slow gait. It is a man, built like her father, with wide broad shoulders. He is important, too. She remembers him, but only in bits. Fingers uncurl from their fists as slowly as the figure moves toward her. He has dark hair, he makes her smile often, he brings the same kind of warmth and safety that sleep does. A breath of relief snakes out of her trembling lips. Aderith has, thus far, kept the tears at bay.
When she remembers his willpower, he speeds his stride. This man is capable of burying his intense anger, the thing that threatens to push him over the edge. His self-control is something Aderith admires, she remembers, not only as a core principle when they fought side-by-side in combat but as a grounding, necessary attribute he could not survive without.
The frustrated, confused tears that flooded her eyes melt away as the figure nears. He is her favorite person. Massive arms wrap her newly lean, skinny, soft body and draw Aderith up. Some things are as fuzzy as others, as blurry, but he is the only thing she can recall with clarity. When he pulls back, Addy takes in his worried brows and the way his lips part to ask where she’d gone.
Alasdair.
She wakes to darkness and Leiona’s face looming over her, eyes wide with new fear.
“We have to go,” the priestess whispers.
