39. The Prince

39

THE PRINCE

H is mind drifted aimlessly among fragments of hazy memories of mostly sounds, clouded visuals, smells, and tactile senses.

Fabrics.

For some reason, he had the impression of how different fabrics felt against his skin. But those were memories.

He felt nothing now.

He knew he was male, so there was at least that, but he didn't know his name or what he looked like. Had he never seen his own reflection?

There was no sense of time, no concept of how long he had been floating in this confusing void or why.

Maybe this was death?

This could be what being dead felt like.

After all, he had no sensation of having a body or being inside a physical shell. As far as he knew, he could be just a floating consciousness.

But why was he conscious if he didn't have a purpose? Wasn't the soul supposed to end up somewhere special according to its merits?

And there was that sound again. A female voice that was somehow whole and clear among the haze of his fragmented thoughts and distorted memories of sensations. He could not understand what she was saying, so that was aligned with the rest of his confusion, but the sound was so clear, as if she was right there beside him, talking to him, singing to him.

Was the sound a lifeline or a beacon he was supposed to follow to find his place in the afterlife?

No, it couldn't be the afterlife because if he were dead, the sound wouldn't evoke such longing in him. He wanted to see the female's face, knowing that she would be beautiful, to feel the touch of her hand, knowing it would be soft and gentle.

Clinging to the sound, he followed it, his consciousness clinging to the tether…

If he could open his eyes…

If he only had eyes…

He should concentrate on remembering what it felt like to have them—having eyelids, closing them, opening them, moving his head from side to side.

A sense of apprehension assailed him every time he thought about anyone seeing his eyes. There was an instinctive need to cover them so no one would see them.

Why?

What was wrong with them?

And why was the sound gone?

He needed the female's voice so he could follow it. Where had she gone?

Had something happened to her?

The sudden flash of fear and anger was like a bolt of energy, like a lightning strike that animated the body that he was becoming aware of, not enough to move anything but perhaps enough to lift his eyelids and look at the world he was in without reaching for a veil.

Dangerous. It was so dangerous. But he was tired of living in fear.

Commanding the shutters on his eyes to lift was at first futile, but he was not ready to give up. With a monumental effort, he forced the movement and almost lost consciousness just from the exertion of that slight action.

Then it dawned on him. He was conscious.

The view that greeted him was alien and terrifying. He hated small, confined spaces, and this chamber was small and devoid of color. White walls, various equipment, and all kinds of tubes and wires were attached to him.

A scream lodged in his parched throat, but then he saw her.

A female was slumped in a chair beside his bed, her wavy dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her face softened by the gentle embrace of sleep.

For a moment, he simply stared at her.

Who was she?

Why did she sit in this alien room with him, guarding, talking, and singing to him? Was she a medic?

Did he know her and had forgotten who she was?

Perhaps this was home, but he had forgotten that as well.

He tried to speak, to force the words past the dryness of his throat and the heaviness of his tongue, but all that emerged was a rasping, guttural sound that seemed to echo in the room's stillness like a cry of despair.

The female didn't rouse, but suddenly the door flew open with a bang, and another female rushed in, red hair the color of fire flying behind her like a torch in the wind.

The dark-haired female jerked awake, her eyes wide open as she sat up straight in her chair.

They spoke to each other in urgent tones, their words a jumble of unfamiliar, incomprehensible sounds. But then, with a movement almost too quick to follow, the dark-haired female lifted a pendant that hung around her neck and spoke a command, "Kra-on."

The redheaded female followed her example, and suddenly, miraculously, their words became clear, the meaning of their conversation snapping into focus like a puzzle piece falling into place.

With a start, he realized that the devices hanging from their necks translated their foreign language into one he could understand.

"My sister," he managed to croak, his voice a hoarse, broken whisper that seemed to scrape against the inside of his throat.

The dark-haired female rushed over to his bed and leaned over him, her smile soft and reassuring and her strange golden eyes glowing with warmth and affection as she brushed cool fingers over his forehead. "Your sister is fine," she said through the device. "She's in the next room, still unconscious like you were, but getting better with every passing day."

Tears gathered in his eyes, a wave of relief and gratitude washing over him like a cool, cleansing rain. "Thank the Mother," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

The female's smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that seemed to radiate from her every pore. "Welcome back to the world of the living, my prince."

"Prince?" Why had she called him a prince? "I'm no one's prince."

But the redheaded one stepped forward before the dark-haired female could answer him. "I need to examine the prince," she said briskly, her voice crisp and businesslike as she gestured for the other female to move aside. "Please, give me some space."

The dark-haired female nodded, stepping back from the bed with a lingering glance that seemed to promise she would never be far away.

And then the red-haired female was leaning over him, her hands moving over his body with the practiced efficiency of a medic.

A medic. That was what she was. And this was a medical facility.

Was the dark-haired female another medical provider?

"I'm senior medic Bri–" the translation device seemed to have a problem with the sounds.

The dark-haired one stepped forward and said, "Bri-jet," without the device's help.

When he repeated the sound, the senior medic nodded. "You have got it right. Good job. I am going to touch you now to do a more thorough check of how you are doing. If this is agreeable to you, say yes or nod, and if you cannot do either, blink once; if it is not agreeable and you prefer a male to check you, blink twice."

Did he prefer a male?

He was not sure, so he blinked once.

The medic pulled out a metallic device, rubbed it for some reason, and put it on his chest.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might be naked, and he did not want the female to see him, but she was a medic, and it was too late to say that he preferred a male to conduct the examination.

"Can you feel this?" she asked after doing something he couldn't feel.

"No," he rasped.

She paused what she was doing, stepped away from him for a moment, and then returned with a cup.

"I will start by wetting your lips." She poured some water on a white square of fabric and rubbed it over his lips. "Better?"

He licked his lips, the water tasting fresh on his tongue.

"Yes. Can I have more?"

The medic smiled. "Do you usually drink water?"

"Yes," he replied, wondering about the odd question.

The doctor nodded, her eyes narrowing as she studied him with a gaze that seemed to see straight through him. "I am going to raise the back of the bed to bring you to a semi-reclining position. There will be a whizzing sound when I activate the mechanism. Ready?"

Too tired to say the word, he blinked once.

"Here it goes." She pressed something, and then, with a soft whirring sound, the back of his bed began to lift, the angle shifting until he was propped up in a semi-reclined position.

The medic put in the cup a strange, tubular device bent at one end and held it out to him with an expectant look on her face. "Suck gently," she instructed. "I only want you to wet your mouth. You can swallow a little, but not a lot. Your stomach can't handle anything more than that right now."

He did as he was told, drawing the cool, clear water into his mouth and letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it. It felt strange, almost foreign, as if his body had forgotten how to perform even the most basic functions.

When the medic took the cup away, the prince looked up at her, his eyes searching her face for some hint of familiarity, some clue that might help him piece together the shattered fragments of his memory.

"How can you understand me?" he asked.

The device that translated their strange language into the one he understood did not work in reverse. It did not translate what he had been saying to them.

The female pushed her flaming hair behind her ear, revealing a small device lodged inside her ear. "This translates for me," she explained, tapping it with one slender finger. "The same way the teardrop translates for you." She tapped the pendant that hung around her neck.

So, they had two kinds of translation devices—one for hearing and one for talking.

Interesting.

But even as he marveled at the ingenuity of the gadgets and wondered how they worked, the thought that bothered him was that he still didn't know who he was.

They called him prince, but a prince of what?

What had happened to him that made him unable to remember his own name?