These are My Hands
"I never set foot on a deck but even I know some things. Never change the name of a ship. She'll die if you do. And never forget the hand of your hero. You never know when its touch may save you."
Dreams had always been fickle things in his mind.
Now reality became just so, if not that much more.
Renne lost track long ago of when he was aware of the world or not and found his mind able to wander as easily as he once did throughout the worlds. The cold by now had taken him beyond shivering, turning pain into a distant numbness deep down through to his bones.
He actually welcomed the lack of feeling right now.
It wasn't right but it was true.
The cold slowed everything down to a near-halt. Blood flow had been cut down to beyond half the speed it'd typically run. Nerve impulses were sluggish; even shivering was beyond him now. And somehow, he found everything funny in a detached, unfamiliar way. He even almost-laughed when he heard the familiar, hated voice whisper faintly in his head.
It was all a sick dream.
---------------------------
-He was walking. Or dancing. Or floating. Or flying. He couldn't decipher which one he was doing but he was doing it. Fire licked at him on all sides and ice stung him from below. Warm hands roughened by years of work held him, guided his movements in a manner that didn't quite reach paternal and lay just between brotherly/teacherly. The hands were his only comfort in a confusing place-time.
He wanted the hands to sweep him into another place. The fire and ice seared above and pounded below. And all he could do was keep moving. To stop wasn't an option.
Even if he wanted to. Badly.
The hands spoke to him as they moved in this walk/flight/dance/run. They were firm, gentle, commanding and playful. The left hand was rough, aged by sea air and smelled of gunpowder, salt and wool. The palm was tough and square. The fingers were nail-trimmed and the tips of these fingers blunt, capable.
Blue -- Gold
The right hand smelled of ink, coffee and cotton. It was the same in shape -- blunt fingers, square palm and roughened by years of work. This hand didn't speak of much though. It spoke of something older, ancient and sage. It was in its own way, aristocratic and scholarly.
Black -- Green
Gray
Renne wanted to speak. He wanted to know who the hands belonged to. Names, voices surged at him like a tide gone unchecked. Voices warbled in and out of distinction in laughing gaggles, calm murmurs, haunting wails and thundering roars. All of them, he knew.
-- Leave none behind
The scholarly green whispered from some distant place.
...I used to dance. I'll teach you someday....
The warmth rumbled from the seashore.
Slekt fremfor alt
The triumphant cry echoed off of walls that no longer stood.
The dance's pace didn't seem to slow down or pick up speed. And yet it did all at once. Spinning, spiraling in the grip of these hands was beloved torment and soothing chaos. He didn't want to make anything of it.
He didn't want to listen to the shadows in the flames.
-- I regret choosing you!
Skeletons came tumbling out from inside a heart once locked secure.
...and kick you into the ocean!
Innocent intentions unmasked into twisted misinterpretations.
...banished from these shores, Melek...
Ancient words bit like sharks for their prey.
He prayed again in his dream/reality when the hands tightened their grip. It was a grip that held on for dear life but bordered on wrenchingly painful. Renne felt his left leg scream with a burning, tearing pain. The fire flew across skin, muscle and transparent bone. The ice froze the feeling off again.
Fire and ice crackled without a sound. Dark laughter was shut out in the dark thing beyond the flames.
Then the hands let go.-
-----------------------------
He lay out there in the north with presences around him. Mortal and not, they seemed to hover at the edge of his awareness when he managed to come through to half-wake. Frozen eyes cracked when they forced themselves to move.
It had been hours, perhaps days since he tried his voice.
Renne kept quiet and concentrated on moving.
The numbness broke with searing, frozen cracks of fire as stiff muscles contracted and frostbitten skin rent like brittle leather. He didn't care; his goal wasn't far anyway.
The cold kept blood flow down to a minimum which impeded movement but it likely was a blessing. Blood in him ran thinner than that of humans. Much thinner.
One webbed hand made it to his britches' pocket.
It might have taken what seemed like an hour to perform this simple task of retrieval but it was worth it.
His fingers froze around a white feather and a little drawn sack of earth.
in the calm, white cold, Renne closed his eyes.
"I never set foot on a deck but even I know some things. Never change the name of a ship. She'll die if you do. And never forget the hand of your hero. You never know when its touch may save you."
Dreams had always been fickle things in his mind.
Now reality became just so, if not that much more.
Renne lost track long ago of when he was aware of the world or not and found his mind able to wander as easily as he once did throughout the worlds. The cold by now had taken him beyond shivering, turning pain into a distant numbness deep down through to his bones.
He actually welcomed the lack of feeling right now.
It wasn't right but it was true.
The cold slowed everything down to a near-halt. Blood flow had been cut down to beyond half the speed it'd typically run. Nerve impulses were sluggish; even shivering was beyond him now. And somehow, he found everything funny in a detached, unfamiliar way. He even almost-laughed when he heard the familiar, hated voice whisper faintly in his head.
It was all a sick dream.
---------------------------
-He was walking. Or dancing. Or floating. Or flying. He couldn't decipher which one he was doing but he was doing it. Fire licked at him on all sides and ice stung him from below. Warm hands roughened by years of work held him, guided his movements in a manner that didn't quite reach paternal and lay just between brotherly/teacherly. The hands were his only comfort in a confusing place-time.
He wanted the hands to sweep him into another place. The fire and ice seared above and pounded below. And all he could do was keep moving. To stop wasn't an option.
Even if he wanted to. Badly.
The hands spoke to him as they moved in this walk/flight/dance/run. They were firm, gentle, commanding and playful. The left hand was rough, aged by sea air and smelled of gunpowder, salt and wool. The palm was tough and square. The fingers were nail-trimmed and the tips of these fingers blunt, capable.
Blue -- Gold
The right hand smelled of ink, coffee and cotton. It was the same in shape -- blunt fingers, square palm and roughened by years of work. This hand didn't speak of much though. It spoke of something older, ancient and sage. It was in its own way, aristocratic and scholarly.
Black -- Green
Gray
Renne wanted to speak. He wanted to know who the hands belonged to. Names, voices surged at him like a tide gone unchecked. Voices warbled in and out of distinction in laughing gaggles, calm murmurs, haunting wails and thundering roars. All of them, he knew.
-- Leave none behind
The scholarly green whispered from some distant place.
...I used to dance. I'll teach you someday....
The warmth rumbled from the seashore.
Slekt fremfor alt
The triumphant cry echoed off of walls that no longer stood.
The dance's pace didn't seem to slow down or pick up speed. And yet it did all at once. Spinning, spiraling in the grip of these hands was beloved torment and soothing chaos. He didn't want to make anything of it.
He didn't want to listen to the shadows in the flames.
-- I regret choosing you!
Skeletons came tumbling out from inside a heart once locked secure.
...and kick you into the ocean!
Innocent intentions unmasked into twisted misinterpretations.
...banished from these shores, Melek...
Ancient words bit like sharks for their prey.
He prayed again in his dream/reality when the hands tightened their grip. It was a grip that held on for dear life but bordered on wrenchingly painful. Renne felt his left leg scream with a burning, tearing pain. The fire flew across skin, muscle and transparent bone. The ice froze the feeling off again.
Fire and ice crackled without a sound. Dark laughter was shut out in the dark thing beyond the flames.
Then the hands let go.-
-----------------------------
He lay out there in the north with presences around him. Mortal and not, they seemed to hover at the edge of his awareness when he managed to come through to half-wake. Frozen eyes cracked when they forced themselves to move.
It had been hours, perhaps days since he tried his voice.
Renne kept quiet and concentrated on moving.
The numbness broke with searing, frozen cracks of fire as stiff muscles contracted and frostbitten skin rent like brittle leather. He didn't care; his goal wasn't far anyway.
The cold kept blood flow down to a minimum which impeded movement but it likely was a blessing. Blood in him ran thinner than that of humans. Much thinner.
One webbed hand made it to his britches' pocket.
It might have taken what seemed like an hour to perform this simple task of retrieval but it was worth it.
His fingers froze around a white feather and a little drawn sack of earth.
in the calm, white cold, Renne closed his eyes.