A World Long Sundered -- Chapter 6 PART 2

The whole dying thing didn’t scare him that much. He imagined death was akin to his dreamless sleep anyway. Which hadn’t been so terrible. As far as what needed to be done after waking, he supposed it probably wouldn’t mean much to him without his past. Especially, if all that awaited him out there was death.

His hands were still damp and most likely stained, it was hard to tell in the odd false-light of the room. Could he make any difference now? Did he want to? He would be lying to himself if he said yes. Long ago, leaping into whatever righteous cause that presented itself would have been easier. Now, though, he just felt defeated. Whatever state the world was in now was guaranteed to be completely different than the one he remembered brokenly.

If he dared to believe his captors, he’d been asleep for a very long time. All that he once knew and loved would be no more whether he remembered them or not. A calloused numbness within hinted at loss from long ago. Perhaps he’d tried to come to grips with such loss already and was only responding with the emotional detachment required for him to cope.

Everything his captors showed him were gone. His sister, mother, friends, the farm, the Bo, even his father would be lost to the void.

Now there was a thought.

Would they be able to show him his father? Summoning up and image of his father’s face proved difficult, and he doubted he could blame the pits in his mind for that. Riggs supposed there were many who would relish seeing a lost loved one’s face, even if it was an illusion. He didn’t know whether he should thank or curse the bugs for letting him see his family again. Maybe neither. At present, it didn’t feel like much of a blessing.

A buzzing in his mind told him there was precious little time. They were growing impatient.

What had his mother called the old Bo? A relic from an age long gone, but one we have little control over.

He laughed. “Ha! Now I’m the relic mother!” But I still don’t seem to have anything under control.

He knew what his mother would have him do. She had possessed a heroic sense of duty toward others. More than duty, it was purpose. Even after father left, she only worked that much harder. So many lose faith in others after abandonment, but not her. She really believed he’d come back. I did too. Of course, who’s to say he didn’t? Maybe the memory was in there somewhere. Was that worth diving a little deeper into this façade? Surely, he would have remembered something like that though. But still…

“If only I’d had Kyndra’s strength, mother.” His sister had inherited their mother’s sense of altruism. She’d had a spark, a light that life only gives to those capable of wielding it.

“That’s why Bo loved you, sis.”—and let me fall, he mused sarcastically.

Even without the bug’s recreation, the image of his sister reaching down after him easily took shape in his mind. Their mother had tried to warn him of the nature of the Bo. Yet, she had still allowed them into the forest. Were you afraid of what might happen if you kept us from the tree? What the tree might do? The bond between those two had been almost tangible. Now that he thought about it, his fall had hurt Kyndra nearly as much as it did him, perhaps more. Kyndra trusted the R’leigh Bo implicitly. Riggs had now seen how shocked and confused she had been, especially the frantic journey home. Had her faith in the Bo been shaken that day?

What happened to you Kyn? Why can’t I remember?

Again, he told himself that the memory could be in there somewhere, just waiting for the bugs to pry it out. What would she say now?

She’d say you’re being a selfish bastard…

Well, maybe not exactly like that. It rang true, though. His mother and sister would have already offered to help the bugs in their need. He knew he was different. It had always been so. That was why you wanted to share the Bo with the rest of the world, so the farm wouldn’t be your responsibility. That’s exactly why your sitting here, isn’t it? Trying to rationalize out a reason to care.

What’s in it for you, eh ol’ Riggs? The world’s dying and all you’re worried about are a few ghosts from the past. Stop lying to yourself! If you’re looking for a reason to care, a reason to believe, you know damn well what it is.

The thought rushed at him out of nowhere. Had his captors said it? No, not their style. Just what was he trying to tell himself? Why couldn’t his family be the reason to push on? Remembering what happened to them was important, he wanted to know.

You’ve always been a coward Riggs, A coward and a liar. You always run, it’s what you do. You couldn’t save her then, why should now be any different?

A part of him knew! Something small within remembered, but it was locked away, out of reach. At least, that’s what he told himself. Save who?

That’s right Riggs. Tell yourself it’s impossible, so you have a reason not to try. Liar!

“Damnit! Who do you think you are! I’m trying!”

You’re running again.

He stood. “Get out of my head! I don’t care what you are, I won’t be manipulated by them or whatever they throw at me. You don’t know me!”

A sudden senseless laughter filled his head, pausing only to interject, You don’t know yourself! The laughter continued, unceasing.

Riggs groaned, shoving his hands to his temples. His voice escalating into a roar, “Fine! So, I’m a coward. What of it?” His head throbbed. What had initially begun as a tightness evolved into stabbing pains in his temples. Still the laughter persisted.

Reflexively, he found himself stumbling to one of the corner room cabinets. It may only be a recreation, but perhaps it could still offer some relief as it had so often when he was a child.

He flung open the cabinet door to reveal an otherworldly inky blackness. The odd false-light of the room didn’t extend to the void inside, except for a single glass bottle. It seemed to hover there floating amidst the darkness. To his relief, he pulled the single glass bottle of Nana’s Blessing from within. The jar took on a subtle glow when introduced to the light of the room. Fumbling with the lid, his eyes stumbled upon the label. He had seen the picture countless times. A simple rendition of a stubby plant with light-blue and grey flowers, cupped in a pair of aged yet caring hands. The silvadena.

Riggs’ eyes locked on the image, his pain momentarily forgotten. Ever since Kyndra first learned to speak, she had called it simply by dena. As a babe, she’d struggled to pronounce the first half of the word. Dena had stuck. However, Riggs had referred to it differently.

“Silva…” he whispered.

The word reverberated through the room, it echoed in his mind, drawing him deeper into thought. Closing his eyes, he shut everything out, focusing only on following where the word led him. Silva. At first, the fields his family had tended appeared in his minds eye, rows upon rows of stubby lightly colored florae.

The memory lingered there, then it dashed towards the forest quicker than his legs could have ever taken him. It carried him to the forests edge and beyond, never slowing. Whipping past trees, he saw every detail of the trail rush by. His mind remembered every dip and turn, every gnarled tree and mossy, half-buried boulder. Rays of light escaping the canopy overhead cascaded down around him. The swiftness of his flight made the rays seem like shooting stars, leaving long, bright afterimages in his vision.

Silva. The word became louder, yet more gentle somehow. He sailed through the trees, occasionally the peaks of the Myrr mountains would appear through the thick branches. A brightness began to appear ahead of him, a pinpoint of white light, a beacon beckoning him nearer. The pace quickened, and finally he broke through into the clearing and overtook the light. It rushed at him like an ocean wave, crashing over him, inundating his senses. The light drowned out everything, encompassing all around him, the flow if it carried him further and eventually deposited him gently on his knees.

Still he saw nothing, but felt soft earth and vegetation under him. The brightness remained, but several images gradually took shape. The first was the Bo. Not the whole tree however, only the base of the largest trunk emerged. Outlines of other trees appeared but lacked definition. Movement to his left caught his attention. The boy lay prone, naked, and massively blood-streaked. He had already woken, propped on his elbows, his gaze locked on the final figure to appear out of the brightness.

The girl. Up until now, Riggs had tried to put her out of his mind. Perhaps it was an innate reflex, his subconscious trying to shield him.

Upon looking on her, he realized he had been running. He once again felt the otherworldly pull the nymph child held over him, not the absolute compulsion he’d experienced from the mother, but still powerful in its own right. She stood as before, her arms in the final moments of supplication just after her mother had faded into the aether. Her attention centered on the prostrate boy.

It’s all happening as it did before.

The boy scurried away from the girl on his elbows exactly on queue. The same expression of vacancy clung to the girl’s face. Riggs readied himself for the girl’s inaudible whisper. She turned towards the boy, her gaze passing through Riggs’ spectral form along the way.

“Her name was Sylva. Now, it is mine.”

A fae wind blew as she spoke, whipping her sky-blue tresses around her. Although her voice was that of a child no older than the one she spoke to, it held a whisper of the strength it would someday inherit. There was a wildness within it, Riggs wasn’t sure if it held blame or not. How could she not blame him? Finally, the girl turned and disappeared into the Bo exactly as before.

The experience had proven too much for his younger self who had fallen back into the mud and lapsed into unconsciousness. A sudden and heavy rain began to fall. Amidst the noisy downpour, Riggs could almost hear a child’s sobs.

The vision ended. Riggs was once again in the oddly lit room staring at the glass bottle in his hands. The pain in his head was gone.

“Her name was Sylva.” The incessant laughter in his head had vanished. Had that always been her name? Was she named after the flower, or the plant after her?

The nymph mother had given her life to save the boy, to save him. The nymph-child had witnessed it all.

Of all the things to say to the boy that caused the death of your own mother…and you told me her name? Their names?” Riggs found himself leaning against the wall, jar still in hand. A sigh escaped his lips, but with it, some of his weariness. He stood upright. Closing his eyes, he gazed upward.

Something inside him finally gave.

Although not sure as to what he was yielding to, there had been something in the girl’s violet eyes that beckoned to him. He was still tired, but that was not likely going to change. Something in her eyes told him it didn’t matter. Dying didn’t matter. She hadn’t blamed him. She died… and the girl told me her name…

He took a deep breath, “So be it,” he released. “For the girl, then, for Sylva.”

At least for now, I’m done with running.

Placing the glass jar upon the windowsill, he steadied himself for what was to come next. Mentally, he projected to the bugs within.

“Show me.”

An emerald flash erupted across his vision as the room vanished.

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