OOCThis is my first flashback, AND solo thread, so please go easy on me! Please note that the shadowed text means that it is a memory that she is remembering in her dreams. (: Enjoy!
Sunberth - Northern Woods
85th of Fall, 511 AV
The uncontrollable shivers, the disgruntled, heavy sighs, all of which seemed to echo and ring in her ears as she lay in a feverish heap in her bedroll. Every attempt to open her eyes caused her a dizzying sensation, almost leading her to hallucinate that there may be others inside her tent. The wind whistled angrily, pounding its gale force onto the thick cloth of her makeshift shelter, seemingly threatening to rip it apart. The trees swayed and their leaves were ripped apart with ease, and for a moment, the frail young girl wondered if her horse were alright outside. She'd draped onto him everything and anything; her cloak, the loose portions of her tarp, and even thought of giving it her blanket. Unfortunately, it would have to make do with the tarp, the cloak, and the bed of leaves she'd formed in a mound next to the tree it was tied up to. The wind continued to whistle and shout harshly, and she knew she was most definitely not going to have any sleep tonight.
A Luvanor, taking in enough heat and warmth from its own fur, lay by her feet, gazing up at her with a worrisome expression. "It's okay, Dan," she attempted to speak, to comfort the canine, but it came out hoarse and weak, almost blocked away by the screaming wind. It was almost winter; winter, with the blistering cold and the thick layer of snow. She wondered how she'd ever be able to survive it. Hot tears began to fall down her feverishly hot cheeks as she began to imagine her death - her body, frozen solid with her eyes wide open, possibly staring up at the sky. Whatever ounce of sunlight there was in the forest would illuminate her face, serene, yet filled with sadness. Death terrified her more than anything else; the thought of not being able to live her life to the fullest, of not being able to speak to anybody before she were laid to rest. The biting loneliness that coupled her fears only led her to feel a piercing pang of indescribable pain in her stomach and chest.
Nightmares plagued her mind, and thoughts of doom and eternal solitude loomed over her head like a drooling demon, eager to steal her away and feed her insecurities with even more pessimism. She wondered what the time was, and if the moon was high in the sky. Would the day come, or would she never last past the sunrise? Would she be able to steady her trembling limbs and attempt to hunt, attempt to earn, or perhaps even to interact with the city? Questions that she couldn't answer for herself began to mix with the other horrors that circled around her mind, giving her an irrevocably ferocious migraine. She began to cry. It began with sobs, groans filled with misery and hopelessness, until the tears began to stream down her face in multitudes. The young Luvanor, Dante, watched from his place below her, whimpering. The canine was unsure of what to do for her, if there was truly anything he could do. She gripped her blanket with one hand tightly, willing for strength that never came. Instead, she bit at her knuckle until it bled, and it only made her cry even more. Dante barked softly at her, but she was too deep inside her horrible little fantasy to even notice the poor dog.
There, as clear as day, was the memory of her father. He lay in his bed, or rather, his deathbed, his face swollen and blistering with red splotches. It was an disease that no one could explain or cure, and it simply pulled him closer and closer into a vegetative state, until he could not even utter any more then that first letter of her name. She watched with terror-stricken eyes, unable to look away in fear that if she succumbed to even the briefest distraction, her father would pass without her seeing. She recalled his voice - always youthful, melodious and jovial, and the way he used to call her name. The way he said good night, the way he said good morning, his warm kisses on her forehead, and his equally warm embraces. He was the embodiment of protection and security for her, he was literally, her strength. And as she watched her strength, her only power and driving force to live and strive, cripple and dissipate from her very grip, she weakened. His voice was a mere whisper, devoid of all the life and happiness that it once exuded. His lips moved with a quiver, and he could not even move his body. He'd struggle, attempt to brush the hair away from her face, damp with tears, but could only lift a finger. Her hands, still small and young, not fit to inflict death or even touch the dying, held his hand throughout the days and nights. He gazed at her for so long, his eyes barely even open as they were terribly, sickeningly swollen. He teared up often, although she was never sure if it was due to his sickness, or if he were crying.
"Father," she would sob, her tears dripping down his wrist as she held his hand to her warm cheek. He'd move his fingers a little bit, and sometimes, he'd even be able to caress her a little. Whenever he could manage a smile, that the light that filled her face could even compare to the ethereal beauty of an Ethaefal. When he could still speak, he would tell her millions of stories, some too old for her to know, some she'd been told before, and some that he felt she'd needed to know. He told her everything. When he could not even complete sentences, he would simply call her name, tell her sweet things, tell her he loved her. But when he could not even utter a word, he'd simply call her by the first letter of her name. Confusing, but heartbreaking. He was succumbing quickly to the illness yet even in a matter of days, she'd immediately miss his soothing voice and the strength in his hands. He was limp, barely there, almost gone. She remembered him, she remembered his face clearly, every single day, how his conditioned worsened. And on the day he was prepared to leave, she could not stop the tears.
She knew, she just did. There was something about death that made it so clear as day when it was so close to somebody. On the day that he comes to take somebody away, he's there, his aura looming over the victim, his hands rooting onto his shoulders, his hands, his feet. Almost gone, barely there. He smiled at her, but she could not return the sentiment. She held his hand, now completely limp and dark from the lack of movement and circulation. He could not even move his fingers. She pressed his hand on her face and continued to cry. "Father," she mumbled in between sobs, eyes plastered onto his, half-closed. "A..." he managed, but she knew it hurt him as much to even make a sound. "D-Don't, I-It's... Okay..." she tried, but he continued to attempt to say her name. "A-And," he said, and her cries reduced to sobs, eyes wide as he managed a part of her name. The thought of his recovery filled her with false hope, although it dropped at once when she realized how dead his body had already become. Almost gone, barely there. "Andalusia..." he trailed off, her name barely audible in his little whisper, but the fact that it was there, how it gripped onto his lips and stayed there, filled her heart with extreme warmth. "Father, I'm here," she said soothingly, inching up to kiss is forehead and rest hers on it. "Andalusia," he managed with a little more ease. She gripped his hand tightly, but knew he could not feel anything. She continued to rest her forehead on his. "Yes, father," she sobbed quietly, refusing to even blink. "I love you," he murmured, and she thought she heard his voice again, happy, alive, and filled with life and love. He smiled brightly, closed his eyes, and his chest stilled. Gone, no longer there.
Andalusia wailed at the memory, her tears coming almost as strong as the howling winds that made her numb and frigid. Even in her fever and emotional state, she could not feel warmth - only the frozen coldness of her thoughts, and of the night. She shivered uncontrollably at her memories as they returned with full force. Everything else in her mind was a murky, indecipherable blur compared to her past, horrible experiences.
He was a kind old man, willing to do anything and everything for the people that he loved and cared for. He was her grandfather's oldest, most dearest friend. A family man, who put his wife and children first before his own welfare, yet they had all passed away and left him alone. She took comfort in his biting loneliness, and they both bonded on mutual losses. She and her father stayed with him after as soon as she was born, and he had always been such a good friend to her. She considered him like a grandfather, or an uncle, and later even as a father figure. He was a wobbling, crouching little man, and she ended up towering over him as she grew older. He walked with a little cane, a wide smile always on his lips, one that could never fail to warm anyone's heart. His graying, silver hair shined when the sun hit it, and he was so wise, so very wise. He answered her every question, helped her expand her knowledge and broaden her views, which only led her to become even more curious about the world she was forbidden, or more or less afraid to see. He was the most comforting companion after the loss of her father, and his healing presence alone was what helped her smile again. But, as age creeps up on a man, so does death. And she had unfortunately dragged herself into the front-row seat of another man's passing. He was sickly, coughing often, sneezing often, but it had never occurred to her that he may leave her just as swiftly as her father had. A high fever, one that when she'd inspected, almost singed her skin at the blistering heat. He still managed a smile through his flushed cheeks, he still maintained composure and calmness even as she frantically searched high and low for a cure. None of his medicines worked. "I am old, Andalusia, and so are you," he chuckled, but it was followed by a raspy, painfully sharp cough. The girl was brought to tears once again, and she clutched at his wrinkly, worn hands. His firm grip on hers was a comfort, but it was not enough. "Tomorrow is your seventeenth birthday, relax," he had told her, and once again, that warm smile on his weathered face, soothed her. "I love you, uncle," she said, tears in her eyes as she spoke the words, though it was shattered by her repeated sobs. "I love you too, my dear child, and don't you forget that!" he replied with a cheerful grin. He maintained his wonderful voice, and his equally magnificent smile. He glowed with happiness, even as he was on the brink of death. She managed to fall asleep on his chest, finding solace in the its rising and falling, and in his beating heart. She clutched onto his hand and they stayed that way throughout the night.
She fluttered her eyes open the next day, the day she turned seventeen. The tweeting birds caused her to smile, and she delighted at the sight. Her blood ran cold and her body froze, when she realized that he was no longer breathing.
Another wail, and more tears. She folded her legs together and lay in a fetal position, hands clutching tightly onto her blanket, soiled with her sweat. Her hair lay limp and clumped together, and her fever escalated. "Wh-why..." she moaned, her voice crackling and still incredibly dry and hoarse. She wished to turn back time, to go back to the days when she was so small, that she could only reach her father's waist in height. She was so light, that her uncle could carry her up in the air so swiftly, that it felt just like flying. She wanted to go back to the days when she ran around fields that seemed to stretch endlessly, to the days when she still wobbled while attempting to shoot an arrow, to the days she spent learning to ride a horse, learning from her uncle's books, her uncle's words, and her father's experiences. She wanted to return to the days when she was happy, and not even an ounce of worry and negativity ever crossed her mind. The nights in front of the fireplace, beside a little Luvanor puppy; a gift from her uncle that he'd hoped would help her recover from the loss of her father. The afternoons on her father's lap, or her uncle's lap, telling stories or making up new ones. The millions of beautiful moments, so far gone, and perhaps never to return.
Dante had enough of her wailing. The Luvanor hopped up and snaked into the bedroll with Andalusia, his face meeting hers. He licked her cheek repeatedly until her crying had reduced to sobs, and stopped when she sighed and released a brief giggle. "Dan," she whispered, arms making their way around the dog, cradling and embracing him. His warmth immediately soothed her chilled body, and she finally felt the effects of her blanket. "I miss them, Dan," she cried out softly, burying her face in his neck. His thick fur felt great against her skin, and it alleviated her pain and slowed her rapidly beating heart. The Luvanor made a little yip and licked her nose, seemingly saying, "we're here." Andalusia remembered the nights where she'd feel the biting loneliness of losing her father, and how Howlite and Dante were there for her. They'd sat with her, watched her cry, and later on they were the reason she could smile again, along with her uncle. And when he had passed, and she had been reduced to an insane mess of tears and anguish, they were there, and they were the reason she'd recovered. Howlite seemed to have read their minds, for he'd peeked into the tent for a brief moment and let out a happy neigh. Andalusia chuckled at the sight. "I know," she nodded vigorously, cuddling closer to the dog, "I know."
And then the beautiful memories flooded back, like a dry river finding its water streaming down it once more. Murky at first, an extremely plain blur, but it later on became extremely clear. The image of her mother, and the way her father had described her so fondly. The distant look in his eyes as he spoke of her, with nothing but wonderful things to say, and the way his smile seemed sad. The nostalgia always made his eyes tear up a little bit. "She had beautiful, strikingly green eyes, just like yours," he'd say excitedly, "I would always get lost in them. They would always twinkle for me, just for me, I know it..." She would ask him how he'd know, and he'd tell her, "I just do." He'd go on and on about her hair, how it cascaded down her back, how it was a fiery red of curls that accentuated her equally iridescent eyes. Her pale, alabaster-white skin, creamy and smooth. Her warm smile, pink lips, and beautiful, rosy cheeks. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and no other woman aside from his daughter, could compare to her. "She had the most wonderful laugh, just like the chirping of birds, and I swear they would stop singing just to listen to her speak," he could not stop talking about her. "She was everything to me," he would say, and his smile would falter, and almost fade, "but you're my everything now," he'd add with a reassuring smile.
She could imagine her, exactly how he'd describe her. Her wide eyes, framed with thick dark lashes, and her strikingly bright emerald eyes, even brighter than a sun-kissed, twinkling forest. Her hair, just as thick and curly as hers, and almost just as unkempt, cascading down her back and around her shoulders, framing her face wonderfully. Her clear and smooth skin, pale, yet rosy. And, her warm, loving smile, saved only for the one she loves. She could imagine her smiling that way right at her, her arms entwined with her father's. Andalusia could see it now, the two of them, standing before her, looking proud and happy, with no trace of sadness or death. His warm, beautiful blue eyes, set on his wife and his daughter, his pale skin matching his lover's. His brown hair, charming smile, and strong arms wrapping around his family. And then, her uncle, the old man, the dear friend, not even wobbling as he made his way into the embrace. The four of them, all healthy, happy, and whole. A family. Dante and Howlite too, would join, and they would be complete. Even if it were just in her mind. She could see it, and it was so, so beautiful.
Her eyes fluttered open, and the sounds of birds chirping filled her ears and warmed her heart with delight. This particular fall morning was unlike the usual; it wasn't so cold, nor barren. She didn't freeze, her blood did not run cold, because the beating heart and the breathing little form next to her was still, very much alive, and staring at her with wide eyes. She giggled at the sight of the Luvanor as he waited patiently for her to be fully roused from her slumber. She was able to sleep, after the many nights of being deprived of it, and this one particular last one, where she could not feel any such warmth. But as she got up and found her fever gone, the cool wind and fast approaching winter air invading her tent as the blanket fell away from her body, she felt warm; as if her family, that she had instilled inside her mind, continued to embrace her tightly even after she had awoken. |
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by Andalusia on March 14th, 2012, 6:42 pm 
. I do like the glimpse into the character's past. 
