Esme - Blossom of Creation

CHAPTER TWO

'Esme.'

A beam of light reflects off waves of golden hair.

'Esme, my Sunshine.' A singsong voice carries on the wind to me. Twirling vines weaving through the strands of gold.

Mother? I want to call back, but my voice is trapped in my throat.

I become aware of the sound of rushing water, and it flows through me.

A tinkling laugh - 'I am light, Esme. I am air. I am the space between worlds.'

Mother! I want to heave with aching sobs, but I have no chest to do so. I have no body.

'Come, be with me. Come and be with me, Esme. Let us be free together, Esme.'

I want to burst out of the ground. I want to run wild in the forests and the fields...

Let me out.

'Esme.'

LET ME OUT.

~

Everything hurt. As my consciousness ebbed back into existence, I groaned as I attempted to unfurl my fingers from my palms. They felt swollen as they pressed into the wooden floor beneath me.

Wooden.

I jolted the top half of my body upwards despite its protesting.

I was in a room. A rather cosy one at that. To my right, a pair of large, plush armchairs sat opposite each other, separated by a low table. Before them, an oak-beamed fireplace, where a fire crackled contentedly over the logs. Behind the chairs, to the left, was a bed with a patchwork quilt of light green and cream, casually draped over it.

Floor-length floral-patterned curtains were draped over the windows. Must be nighttime.

Miscellaneous frames containing quaint artworks of wildflowers, lavender, primroses, and foxgloves hung on the walls, interposed with candle sconces of shining silver, which remained unlit. This room... It was... lovely.

I continued to take in the room around me as I slowly got to my feet, and I realised I must have fallen off the second bed behind me, with an equally pretty quilt, which now lay at my feet, crumpled on the floor.

Where was this place? What had happened after I became unconscious? Where was the stranger?

My heart started to pound as the final memories before I blacked out came rushing back. The potion I had taken. In the mere seconds I had to choose, I grabbed the first vial within reach and drank it, without even thinking how it might have affected me. I never should have told him my name - it was so unnecessarily reckless and stupid.

Looking down at myself, I saw I was covered in thin red welts crisscrossing my arms and legs. I lifted up my awfully dirty linen shirt, revealing more of the same marks tracing their way down my torso. I stretched my hands out in front of me; my knuckles were swollen to twice their normal size and turning a furious shade of purple.

So, I must have fought him off then, I thought, feeling a flicker of satisfaction. Either he bolted like Hell, or I left him for dead and found a safe spot to spend the night.

I allowed myself to collapse onto the bed in relief. I felt utterly exhausted. It must have been a brutal fight for my body to be in such rough shape. If I ever ran into that man again, I'd make sure I had a sword. And if he wasn't already dead, I'd make sure he was - if I ever saw him again.

The familiarity of the pain settled over me. I couldn't count how many times I'd lain in this very position, unable to do anything but breathe, my muscles throbbing from the repetitive drills I forced them through. Swinging my sword against that thick wooden pole. Over and over. Parry. Block. Again, and again. Then hand-to-hand combat. Jab. Cross. Lead kick. Drop and roll. Over and over.