[Flashback] Solitude's Embrace [Solo]

[Ultvann Dyrling]

11th Winter 509AV

Rain rendered the world into nothing but narrow slits gambolling in Ultvann’s vision, a blinding dance that never seemed to end. Above a bruised sky voiced its displeasure, a crack of thunder turning to a hammer strike that pounded the ears in deafening frenzy. For two days the sky had been in relentless furore, although by this point Ultvann could barely discern night from day, the few, brief cracks in the constantly boiling black quickly swallowed. Ultvann thought it wondrous.

From his precarious pitching Ultvann could spy the sea in its courtship of the storm, the mesmerising rise and fall, the boastful crash of a wave into cowering rocks. Only when roused into its greatest passion could the terrifying glory of the ocean be truly admired. Only when it should be feared.

A sudden tearing snapped Ultvann’s head to attention, barely audible above the din of the cataclysm in the sky. The tent had strained itself to its limits, a gibbous wall renting itself under the pressure, a sudden explosion that filled the confines with shrieking bitter wind. Struggling against the strikes of smarting rain that left an icy face raw, Ultvann snatched a piece of tarp liberated from that which now coated tent against the worst of the winds. Upon reaching the hole however he hesitated, eyes narrowing to grim nothingness as pangs of chastisement rang throughout his skull. I have nothing to blasting patch it together with, you damn fool! Frantic thinking and scrambling came next, desperate to stem the rain that froze every pore and ravaged every nerve. A careless swipe of the hand and Ultvann’s force contorted to a grimace, inspection revealing a finger that dripped red from a jagged incision, a rogue fishing hook hanging with inanimate insolence at one end of the wound. With gritted teeth and gritted mind Ultvann carefully fished for the hook, pulling it with meticulous movements along the entry path. Damage would be minimised, but every nerve already wailing found itself reignited with white hot searing.

Without a stray thought Ultvann snatched his hooks and crawled to the thrashing tent side, placing the tarp haphazardly over the hole. Beginning with the delinquent hook he pierced through the tarp and tent, piecing the improvisation together with one unsound seam. Only when the other hooks completely fixed the tarp into position did the shrill whirling evanesce and vanish, the damp now settling as an ersatz rain. Only after spending a few minutes mooring the poles more firmly, scouring every inch of the tent for more tears and setting at least the worst of the chaos right did Ultvann rest. Drenched, wracked with shivers and conscious of the needling pain that infested his finger, Ultvann collapsed into a sprawling sit upon his bedroll, face a collage of relief and exhaustion.

Now what do I do Ultvann mused. Self-imposed isolation had become a quasi-tradition, repeated every few years to escape the squalid bustle of Zeltiva. A few fleeting days amongst the tranquillity of the waves allowed rest and peace, a chance for the meditation that cities such as Zeltiva denied. A minute islet, just detached from the sheer cliff and surrounded on all sides by crushing waves had been his chosen refuge. No swagger of the sailors, no grinding of the city’s cogs as it worked through its daily motion. Only the sea, stretching outwards to infinity. A perfect exile. Again a chime of reprimand, an unconscious squeezing of the wounded finger in self –persecution and punishment. If only I’d accounted for this damned storm!

However Ultvann did not lament his predicament for too long, any hope of retrieval from the inaccessible islet sailing three days away on a trade route, so long as Laviku and Zulrav had remained affable towards them. Instead Ultvann dragged his slovenly sprawl lethargically into a lotus position upon the bedroll, stooped and slacked muscles tightening themselves with practiced routine. Stiff legs limbered themselves then crossed, one hand nursing the other upon the lap created. Now straight, rigid and in a form of complete physical composure Ultvann closed his eyes upon the tent that buckled and deformed with every beating of the wind.

Breathing Ultvann…breathing. Inhale exhale changed from the staggered, jagged breathing of the cold to a slow, somniferous rhythm. Let everything recede Ultvann, everything but me and you. Gradually quiescence overcame everything. The boom of thunder and the pitter patter of rain began to fade away, became muted and then vanished. The darkness behind closed eyes became darker and more tangible, always pulling him deeper. Ultvann drowned himself away from the world, refusing every bodily sense as a superfluous hindrance. Only by drowning could a true meditative state be reached. Let me take you Ultvann, let me take you under.

His mind floated in the nothingness, the purest and most welcome relief from all ill thought and physical reality, from the insidious wailing of the storm to the disillusionment with Zeltivan living to the headaches that had returned with merciless rapidity, the constant pounding pressure that dragged Ultvann awake at night, sweating and fearful. A faltering breath broke the intense concentration, the dream state collapsed and his pensive, tranquil mask falling away to a harrowed grimace. Ultvann doubled over, breath laboured and skin burning, sweating to a profuse degree in so cold a climate. I haven’t lost concentration so completely, so utterly for months. Now every inch of Ultvann ached, eyes leaden and skull straining with an immense searing pressure, as if laboriously being filled with molten steel to punish the lapse in focus. There would be no more meditation today. Another wasted day…what is wrong with me?

[Ultvann Dyrling]

12th 509AV
A meek sun hovered near the horizon, barely lifting itself to attention like some green army recruit, dazed into a stupor when called to wake. The water that so placidly lapped around the wind battered islet flickered in that slow, treacly light of early morning, no trace of the fury and passion the storm had evoked remaining. How human the sea can be. A night of wanton indulgence and now regretting every moment, unable to clamber awake. Ultvann gazed at himself in the water, fingers trailing around the faintest of purples that lingered beneath the skin around his eyes. The wan face perturbed him as unnaturally languid, lacking in the colour or vitality that was imbued in Zeltivan skin. Little could Ultvann remember of the night, bar that festering, pounding ache behind the eyes that allowed no sleep, only a half-lucid consciousness that had left him this morning so unwholesome.

Slowly rising from his crouch by the shore the colour in Ultvann eyes seemed to shift themselves and alight, the dull grey glaze that coated them fading away to alertness and a more vivid blue. In hours the seas will arouse themselves again while I languish here in this pathetic self-pity; comparing myself with such beauty, you godsdamned naive fool? Ultvann clenched a grip about the finger wounded the night before, feeling its the sharp scorch of pain to cleanse himself. Do I have no humility, am I so shameless. With jaw set, exuding an air of determination, Ultvann began to remove his clothing, tunic first, then trousers and underwear. An icy swim was always refreshing. The morning chill sank its teeth into every inch of naked skin, a plume of vapour breath pouring from between red lips. Mind blank but for that singular, overpowering emotion of disgust at his hubris, Ultvann dug his dirtied feet into the sand and launched himself into the water.

It all went wrong. The freezing waves slammed into him with a near Izurdean force, nerves shrieking and then falling silent. A bizarre monolith tumbling downwards through the grim darkness, paralysed and outside of time. It was peaceful.

Systems catapulted themselves into operation and signalled their revival with flourishes of agony. Lungs began the burn of the drowning, every shred of skin aflame with needling pain. Eyes staring into nothing but the off-black emptiness of the deep. Finally Ultvann began to think again as cogs slid back into their places. A leaden arm slammed across his mouth to prevent a gasp, lungs straining to breathe despite themselves. Sluggishly legs began to kick, powerful but flailing out of rhythm or cohesion in sheer panic. Hands clawed at the water, grasping nothing solid in this arduous climb upwards, upwards into more nothingness. Ultvann caught glimpse of the light now, filtered through the murk and the depth as nothing but an inglorious smear. He could hear his father’s voice ringing in the bass, muted way sound does when travelling in water.

“C’mon son, not much further.” Ultvann could see the mountainside above him, stretching upwards to the horizon. Could feel the grip of gravel and rock as his feet thrashed, ascending the landscape pocked with green sentinels watching for trespassers. He could smell the intoxicating scent of Linden trees, touch the wax of the leaves as his fingers scrambled for any hold. We always went there during Spring, to smell the Lindens. I used to love the trees… His father was in front of him with that scarred leathery face just grinning like some accursed simpleton. “We’re here son, just like every year.” Two arms stretched outwards, two perfect beacons calling for an embrace. Almost there… The warming smile twisted into something hideous razor fast, a gaping maw of snarls and hatred. A hand seized his tunic, tight round the throat now. Eyes bulging. His father raised a calloused hand, ringed, savage and reeking of beer, a choking noxious odour that poured down his throat. “No son of mine. No son of mine. You godsdamned bastard!” The hand swung towards him.

Ultvann surfaced thrashing and kicking, body wracked with convulsions that sent spray and splash shimmering in every direction. A gasping cough and his lungs expunged their weight in water, streaming from mouth and nose, the potency of salt water blistering the throat. For a few moments, Ultvann just tread there, legs exhausted but kicking in some innate, primal instinct. Disorientated the sky and sea span in circles, a sickening whirl that forced him to close his eyes, only to find it didn’t stop.

A sonorous groan grumbled from deep in his stomach as bloodshot eyes reopened, blinding light punishing him for having returned to the world above the sea. They spotted the shoreline faded with distance; farther than he’d ever expected it to be. Currents damn it, I’m already exhausted. For what seemed an eternity Ultvann dredged through the water, arms arching heavily in an agonising front crawl, legs barely able to kick let alone with strength. Sheer force of will dragged Ultvann through the swathes of sea that separated him from safety. A wheedling, ingratiating voice whined that the currents weren’t that strong, that this was but a leisurely swim for a Zeltivan. With muscles that felt ready to burst every time they moved through the water, shovelling more and more as some measly form of thrust, Ultvann gave that particular thought real contemplation. Finally the distance closed and hands scraped through sand again, hauling the lifeless body so agonisingly slowly out of the water. With a cry he collapsed onto his back, wincing, and simply no longer tried to move. Tides will be out for a few hours yet. I can just lay here…

As tiredness overcome every other sense or imperative, Ultvann’s thoughts strayed to what had just occurred. Barely no currents, no real waves to speak of…and yet I near drown out here from diving to drowning in a few seconds? It makes no sense...unless. Oh gods...I blacked out. It's happening again. It’s starting again… Those three words repeated themselves in his heads, each time weaker than the last, as Ultvann’s eyes slowly drifted closed.

[Ultvann Dyrling]

A red sea crab scuttled nervously towards the naked body of Ultvann, swooping in and out with unbridled curiosity. Growing bolder it ambled towards an arm sprawled and dirtied like some piece of half broken flotsam. Now brimming with confidence the crab outstretched its arm and pinched a healthy chunk of skin clearly enjoying this peculiar bounty. A hefty blow to the top of its carapace ended the crab’s audacious exploits, its life cut short with an unceremonious crack.

Inspecting his hand, Ultvann frowned squeamishly at the slimy innards of the crab that had sluiced upwards, the texture and greyish colour too reminiscent of brain to sit well with his stomach. Dragging his feet out of the water that had been lapping around them Ultvann tried to stand, only to find his muscles highly unwilling. Rubbing his eyes in an attempt to banish the lingering effects of his impromptu slumber Ultvann realised just how cold he was, starting at the bluish tinge to his fingertips. Almost in an instant his body crumpled under furious shivers desperate to warm itself, Ultvann barely able to see straight so violently did his body shake.

Half stumbling he managed to climb to his feet while darting, frenzied eyes sought out his tent. Not far. Simply leaning into the desired direction Ultvann staggered towards his shelter, the ground rising and falling in seemingly impossible ways, always trying to pitch him down again into the sand. Reduced to a savage pose dragging his knuckles in a futile attempt at stability, Ultvann spilled into his tent’s opening, hands flailing in the optimistic manner of the falling. Rummaging through the travel pack that always sat near the entrance he liberated the flint and steel that had proven itself invaluable on trips such as these. With this he snatched the eating knife that rarely found use, the feel of a catch in the hand as it is devoured a pleasant predatory sensation. “Survival over style I’m afraid,” Ultvann mumbled as he turned the knife onto his tunic, clumsily shearing off a square of the fabric for tinder, the sombre spoke quip an attempt to ease his fear over the stalking numbness that was spreading from his fingers.

Leaning outside the tent Ultvann began to strike the flint and steel over the cloth, heavy-handed strikes failing again and again. In frustration he began to pound the components together harder and harder with weaker and weaker limbs until finally the flint missed and scored a crimson graze across pale knuckles. Face snarling and utterly furious at the pain he slammed the pieces together again with dangerous force. The flint blossomed with heart lifting sparks, an agape mouth and aghast face caught in the brief glow, while below the cloth began to smoulder with a fledgling fire. Shaking his head to regain composure and awareness Ultvann carefully carried the precious flame to the tiny amount of dried grass he’d brought to the islet.

Setting it down, he nestled the cloth in its midst, and blew as softly as he could to try and fan the flames, although he was never truly able to mimic the tenderness of those that had taught him this art. It was graceless and nerve wracking, every part of Ultvann aching for the warmth yet hindered by the ham-handedness that had always afflicted him. Finally, and with a jubilant cry, the grass bloomed with smoke and flames leapt and danced among the strands. As a rogue spark scorched an inattentive finger Ultvann was snapped back to focus, bleary and strained as it was with his physical debilitation.

Now to the logs. The dreary islet had no trees and he had a scarce enough supply of wood as it was. I’ll need to be spartan, nothing more than I need. Wedging a log between arm and hip, both hands now limp and nearing lifelessness, Ultvann clambered towards his incipient blaze again. Lips silently whispered praise to the Gods, to whom it didn’t matter, for keeping the wood dry. Unable to do better Ultvann just dropped the log onto the flame, tendrils of orange caressing its surface the moment it fell into their midst. With a grunt he sat himself down, just outside the tent, panting and shivering in a juxtaposition that Ultvann couldn’t make sense of.

Wrapping his sleeping blanket around him and gently rocking back and forth Ultvann let the warmth sooth his aches and ills. Letting go, his eyes closed and with that his mind wandered, propelled by the currents of heat that the fire stroked against his skin. I need to make sense of this all, all these memories and the sleeplessness and the headaches. When was the last time I had them so terribly, years ago at the least. Gods all of this was meant to rid me of them as it did before yet now I am trapped here as my symptoms worsen and my mind begins to betray me! Damn it I nearly drowned in still waters!

His thoughts shifted slowly in a gentle fade out, darkness changing form into a half tangible setting along the docks of Zeltiva. Sailors and pickpockets drifted along the pathways but as no more than translucent spectres that held no importance, all light and all clarity focused upon the shaved heads of the monks of Laviku meditating on the pier. Afflicted relentlessly with the worst of his headaches, Ultvann had drifted throughout the squalor of those streets, little better than a beggar. Near crazed even the other children of the harbour would not comfort him, offer him no solace, treating him as some tainted aberration. It was then that Ultvann had come across the monks with their faces so utterly tranquil and at peace. No lines of worry or creases of burden ravaged their skin, only the radiant glow of some inner paradise the meagre and unworthy such as he could never hope to obtain.

Even though the smell of their incense cloyed in his nose, a thick, choking scent that turned all his sense bitter, Ultvann had watched them for hours that day in complete adulation. He listened to them talk amongst each other, as sinful to him as that intrusion seemed, absorbing every shred of instruction the elders gave to their students. He heard them speak of thoughtscapes and memory induction and all manner of fantastical terms that made no sense yet signalled a far greater state of living. He awed as one monk sat still for a half hour, breathing so subdued he couldn’t see his lips move, until in one split of a split second a tattooed hand darted into the water and came out clenched around a wiggling, perplexed fish. Too clumsy to even be a pickpocket Ultvann could only dream of such ability, yet perseverance his father had instilled in him with abundance, that and a forceful desire to prove his worth to the man.

It had taken him months, months of blistering migraines so terrible he had to cower in some dark alley beneath a festering cloak to block out the light and a diet of nothing but dust and dock scrapings. But for months he pushed and focused and refined until finally he had reached that first true state of meditation, truly looked into himself and achieved a lingering sense of wholeness and peace. The headaches went away, as did the paranoia and ticks that had driven all and sundry to believe him mad. They returned and he forced them away, blasted them into nothingness with a clearing of mind and soul. Yet this time they had clung on and taken root, every time he cornered them they fought back like some rabid beast, always striking with enough ferocity to escape and poison Ultvann further.

So to the islet he’d come, away from the sailors and deckhands who’d forgotten of “Raving Ultvann”, away from any prying eyes into his personal strife. Opening his eyes Ultvann found his head had slipped forwards, nestling atop his knees, lichen like hair shrouding the world from view. It was divinely comfortable with those wafts of heat, the scent of burning wood and the sounds of the sea all around. But this comfort is an unwelcome distraction. I have this day and the next to find my peace again, not this day and the next to relax by the fireside. Gaping just over his knees Ultvann stared at the fire so intensely he seemed to be intimidating it. Little would stand against the steely determination in the centre of those eyes, like a deep blue tide that roared inevitably to shore. Without a groan Ultvann lifted himself to his feet, every protest filed away for later reference and withdrawal. Time to do what I came here for.