Petra, the Great - (Book One)

"In my mind's eye".

Through my tears I can see Saboykan, unfazed and calm, still sitting cross-legged across the fire.

"I know what you have done Petra."

I hold my head in my hands, and rock back and forth, faster and faster, wanting her to shut up, to go away, and to stop talking.

"They meant everything to me. Everything. I had no choice. I –"

A cold seeps into my bones. A frigidness, unnatural and numbing.  I close my eyes tighter, willing for the memory to disappear but it is to no avail. For I am once again transported –

I stand upon a hill. It is spring for I can smell it in the air and hear it in the birds. Not too far from me is a girl, hair long and as dark as midnight and a boy with eyes the color of honey and a smile that would turn the sourest fruits sweet.

The girl laughs, unworried and happy and for a moment I am confused as to who this carefree gypsy is.  She stands and dances to a song I cannot hear, but I can remember. Her colorful skirts twirling into one swirl of rainbow, her hair like a curtain of night behind her.

The boy reaches out to her. "I love you," he says as he brushes the curls from her beaming face.

"More than your sheep, Sven? You hold your sheep to very high regard."

He laughs and it stabs at my heart. That laugh, that laugh that would make everything better. "You are a close second, I suppose."

She laughs as she kisses him, first his nose then his forehead. "You taste of the sun, Sven the sheep herder." she murmurs.

He leans in as he cups her face in his hands. "And you smell of freedom, Petra of the Shazastar."

I try to turn away from the memory. For I know what is to happen next. This happy, loved Petra, no longer existed. She is a phantom, nothing remained, nothing. I breath a sigh of relief as the memory fades away, as the young embracing couple shimmer from my view, only to be replaced by darkness.

But then another image appears. A single memory...

A brown hand hovers over Sven's pale dead face, so different from how he was when alive. Slender fingers brush his closed eyes, his eyelashes brushing against the palm of a heartbroken Petra, as soft and innocent as his kisses.

I watch my younger self close her swollen eyes, no longer carefree and happy. Instead, all of that is replaced by desperation, a desperation so strong I can feel it through the haze of the memory. She hums and murmurs words so ancient, so old, that they may not be words at all. She continues on and on, the words of the desert encircling the dead boy.

Then she stops. Abruptly. Her eyes snap open. Her hand moves away from his face. I watch, from the side as Sven the sheepherder's eyes flicker. I watch with foreboding and shame, while my younger self-stares with a hope that only comes from those who love too much, love too hard and are blinded by it.

I turn away from the memory, and relief washes over me as the memory fades -- as it disappears before I can see the rest of the horror, before I can see Sven open his eyes.

For when he does they are no longer the color of honey ...

Or the color of the leaves of the trees of his village during autumn.

His eyes open, but they are no longer his.

They are no longer alive.

I heave and vomit as my consciousness returns to the Zingari forest. I look over at Saboykan sitting patiently in the same position beside her magical fire.