A Brief "Respite"

When I awaken, bleary and disoriented, I’m staring up at dark wood paneling. Which is, decidedly, not the material of my ceiling at home.

I push up on my elbows, heart hammering, ready to fight or flee or something – but there’s no danger afoot. I’m alone in a small room with a few comfortable furnishings, laying beneath a quilt on a bed with an actual mattress and frame.

Alone. Alone meaning sans Ruelle.

I throw myself out of bed, though I’m sluggish in a wholly new way that feels nothing like the usual post-bender symptoms. The aches are fresh, like I just did a bunch of laps in gym class after a lazy summer break. These are eclipsed by the throbbing discomfort that seizes my entire right leg once I slam my feet on the floor. I nearly topple over, but it’s not enough to stop me from bumbling to the door and throwing it open.

Ruelle’s bright-eyed face is barely an inch from mine, one hand held up in a fist as if she were about to knock. I must look absolutely crazy, because her entire demeanor stills, like the moment before a flinch. She tries to say something, but I’m in manic mode, and take the tiny breath of silence between us to throw my arms around her and pull her into a hug.

“You’re alive!”

“Oh! Yes, I’m fine. My—”

“I’m alive! We’re alive! Right?” I pull back to stare at her, my brows creasing in concern. “We’re alive, right? As in, not dead?”

“O-of course!”

“Phew! That’s a relief. Oh, uh—” I step back, awkwardly removing myself from the embrace. Her full-bodied flush rivaled the ripest of tomatoes.

Wow, this place is getting to me. I clear my throat, and opt to pretend that never happened. “Excuse me. You were coming to see me?”

“Yes!” Ruelle squeaks, pressing a hand to her cheek. It seems I’ve stun-locked her or something. But she points at me and says, “Your, um… clothes…”

My what? I look down, think for a split second, and promptly toss myself back into the room, slamming the door in her face. I’ve been – by who, only God knows – been dressed in a rather translucent linen shift, leaving my undergarments on full display. They’ve been left in place, at least, but now I’m as flushed as a teen confessing to their crush. At least it takes some of the blood flow away from my leg, which I lean on only by one toe at this point, my entire weight shifted left and leaving me standing like the Leaning Tower.

My hunt for something to wear that isn’t this ends quickly, thankfully, when I get out of my own head enough to notice the wash basin in the corner of the room. On a small stool nearby are my former leathers, stacked neatly in a thick pile. I definitely do not want to climb back into those. How I managed to move around at all before is completely beyond me, let alone sprint halfway across a field while being pursued by terrifying monsters. I choose not to dwell on the monsters part at all for now, lest I be coerced into a panic attack or something.

I’m almost considering walking back out in only this robe thing, but then I see another set has been left at the corner. I pick at these and find, with pleasure, a simple alternative: straight-legged brown pants with thick cream stitching, a white undershirt with bits of lace, and a cerulean tunic, accompanied by a chocolate-brown leather belt.

As I’m changing, I notice something hooked around my neck. A pendant on a silver chain, simple and elegant. It’s small and light enough that I’m not surprised that I didn’t notice it earlier, though I don’t usually wear much jewelry. The stone is droplet-shaped, red as a blood moon, with silver filigree woven around it like delicate vines. Tiny, almost inscrutable flowers appear along the lengths in pretty silver blooms. Whoever made this was truly a master of their craft. Something about it had me feeling almost nostalgic.

I rest the pendant on the slip of lace that grazes my clavicle. The gem twinkles at me, reminding me of the rubies in Eluin’s sword.

A pang of embarrassment hits hard and fast. The sword. The sword that I left in the tomb. My tomb. No, not mine, damn it! I cover my face with my hands. Ruelle’s distraught expression is writ on the back of my eyelids in what I can only image is permanent shame ink.

It’s not like I could have used the thing anyway, I try to remind myself. You’re already one big fat liability.

I finish dressing quickly with the intent on escaping the room, having no desire to ruminate on those thoughts that start to close in. And with invariable luck, a knock raps at the door only moments after I’m decent, saving me from my own mind.

“Uh- come in,” I say, massaging a sudden split of headache that’s forming in my right eyebrow. Ruelle pokes her head through, and I force a smile, gesturing to my torso. “Better, huh?”

“I’m so glad they fit,” she says with what I imagine is an equally forced grin. She makes it look so effortless, though, as she steps through the door, beaming. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m not really sure if I’m lying or not at this point. At the very least, when her concerned gaze drops to my leg, I can offer some insight. I wiggle it in the air for her. “Ten moving toes, all thanks to you.”

“Me! Hardly,” she blurts. “Gerrin made it to us just in time. He took care of the wolves while I… well, I’m happy you’re otherwise unhurt.”

“And what about you?” I look her up and down, but find no evidence to anything drastic. She’s still wearing her clothes from before – a sleeveless brown tunic with white stitched accents, tan pants, and knee high brown boots with red buckles that match her gloves. On her hip, her small sword rests tied to a white belt.

“I’m fine. Just a few scratches… nothing at all to worry about.”

“That’s a relief. And I do have you to thank for saving my life. You didn’t have to do all of that for me, you know,” I say.

I’m harsher than I want to be, but being indebted to someone leaves a sour taste in my mouth. The words, And I’m grateful, hover at the tip of my tongue. I just have to actually say ‘thank you’. Why is that so hard?

Because you don’t deserve the help. Because you’re burdening others by your worthlessness.

I bow habitually to try and make up for the words I can’t seem to force out, though I realize halfway down that such a custom probably isn’t the same here. True to thought, when I look back up, Ruelle’s face is red and her hands are flying all about.

“Um, my lady!” she stops, stammers. Her face goes even redder. “Ah, sorry, I mean… well, um…”

“Well, that part is especially unlucky. If Eluin had been there instead of me—”

“No, please. It’s my fault. I’m sure all of this is my doing, somehow.”

I disagree, but trying to voice that to the dismayed Ruelle seems impossible at the moment, so I change tact. “Who’s this Gerrin guy, anyway? I ought to meet him.”

“Are you sure you feel well enough? You’ve only been resting a few hours.”

“I’m all good,” I say, which is definitively a lie this time. I just want to go home, quickly. And perhaps Gerrin will have a better understanding of what’s going on here.

Because I’m starting to think that I’m not actually dreaming.

---

The Lamb’s Wool is a small but sprightly inn, the bottom level of which is a cozy restaurant-slash-bar. The word ‘tavern’ comes to mind, though I’ve no idea from where or why. Ruelle gives me a slight overview of the situation as we descend: that we made it into Highcreek, that the room and board is completely taken care of (great, because I have zero money to speak of), and that there will be some hot supper waiting for us below.

There’s a few other guests as well; two gruff men take the furthest seats from the stairwell, having a humored conversation with each other. A trio of women enjoy crusts of buttered bread at another rickety table, engrossed in some kind of debate. A short young lady sits alone near the bar at the corner, reading something, and two people stand behind it. The barkeep – a bald, portly guy sporting an impressive ginger beard – is pouring a drink and laughing. Next to him is a grizzled older gent with black-and-white hair tied up in a bun, face covered with a graying beard to match.

We catch eyes, and he does a double take. I couldn’t begin to even name the myriad of emotions that cross his face in that instant, and I don’t have to – Ruelle steps into my vision, gesturing me to take a seat at a small table, and assures me she’ll be right back with food and drink.

As I take my seat awkwardly, I notice that every single patron in the room has turned their eyes to me. Were we overly loud, coming downstairs? I’d be curious, too, I guess. But time starts to slow as they stare, seconds drag on to minutes, and I end up so embarrassed that I have to turn away and cast my gaze down at the wood floor.

Much as I’d like to deny it – and I do for several minutes – I know why they’re staring. And the thought makes goosebumps rise all over my skin.

It’s not just Ruelle that thinks I’m Eluin. Judging by the sheer size of her tomb, the tokens and offerings left behind, the overwhelming respect people give her even just by speaking her name… this all runs far deeper than I thought.

Which just makes it all the more painful for me. I’m no one special. I never have been. I’m Haruka – just Haruka.

I hear Ruelle attempt to speak in a hush, but her voice trends into accidental singsong-y loudness. “Gerrin, please—”

“How did you even manage this?” someone whisper-yells back at her. “Is she…”

“She’s all right. She was walking about the room with little issue.”

“But her mind? Is it still—”

Hmm, there’s a lovely set of knots in the wood paneling of the floor. I stare at them while eavesdropping.

“—sure of that. I’m sorry, Gerrin, I didn’t mean to cause trouble…”

“We will discuss this later. Take these—”

A sudden voice speaks close to me and cuts through my nosiness. “Is it truly you, Lady Eluin?”