Endymion found himself back in the strange field of his dreams. The scenery had changed. The aqua hill contained a tree unlike any known to the waking world. The prince approached slowly but somehow found himself before its limbs in an instant. The wood was a rust color and each branch held hundreds of different clocks dangling by golden threads. Some were large, some very small. Some seemed made of brass while others silver. There were a few round clocks, but also square, oblong and other shapes. Yet they all had something in common. Endymion looked up through the strange foliage and saw each kept the same time down the second.
He reached above to the closest of these and barely grazed the glassy face. As he did, however, a horrid chiming came from the trunk of the tree. It shook the ground beneath him and the clocks swayed above. With each resounding chime, the strange leaves became more and more out of sync. Some traveled speedily into the future, while some reversed. A frenzy filled Endymion's mind at the sights and sounds until he thought he would go mad. At the twelfth chime the world went silent and he dared to glance back up. All the clocks had stopped.
Endymion awoke with no haste, unbelieving that he was still alive. Meager light filtered through wooden shutters, but the sun burned his eyes. He wondered how long he must have been in the dark prison of unconscious. He thought back to remember only glimpses of wakefulness, but could not be sure he had not dreamed them. He remembered strong hands beneath him, snatches of a bumpy ride and the bleat of a goat somewhere close by. He could still hear the ticking of clocks from his dream, of that he was at least certain had been a fabrication of the mind.
As the prince's eyes adjusted he finally became aware of his surroundings. He was in a modest sized room with clay walls and a tightly woven, thatched roof. There was a wooden closet across from his bed and a similar grained door to his right. Two windows graced the walls before him, but did not offer him a view of the outside. To the right of his bed and positioned in the corner was what seemed to be a full bath chamber. He realized he could be anywhere. Tentatively, Endymion rolled his left shoulder and expected pain from the gunshot wound. It was stubbornly sore and tight, but did not make him want to cry out. He reached over and felt a soft bandage that wrapped around his shoulder and upper chest and looked down to see it white and pristine with no hint of ruby gore upon it.
His leg, unfortunately, was a different matter. It was cocooned in a hard casing and propped upon a throne of pillows. Endymion could wiggle his toes, but doing so sent a piercing of pain up his leg. As far as he could tell, he had been well cared for over what must have been a series of days, perhaps weeks. He was lucky to be alive.
At that thought, Endymion lay his head back against the pillow and frowned. His last waking memories were the most hurtful wounds of all. Erasmar had killed his father and claimed none of the blame, but pushed it on the shoulders of the heir. Erasmar tried to kill Endymion, as well. His uncle had sent assassins stalking him through the night and left him to die in a brutal fashion. Their methods spoke of a sincere hatred for the young prince. Had Erasmar ordered him killed in such a fashion, or declared the decree with so much apathy that his minions completed their task with cruel abandonment? It did not truly matter, for the damage remained the same.
Endymion was alone and abandoned, broken on the outside and a city of crumbled ashes on the inside. He had tried so hard to escape, to enact vengeance, but it had been for nothing. All his life Endymion had been building to something, but never finished his masterpiece. He always quit before the burdens became too difficult to bear. He was a failure. Liquid sorrow leaked from his eyes and he made no move to swat them away. He willed his lungs to stop storing air, for his heart to quit its useless thrumming. He no longer wanted to feel, no longer wanted to be alive in this treacherous and evil world. A deep melancholy settled like chains against him, condemning his battered spirit, and he welcomed the numbness it brought. He would stay here forever and wilt away, be lost to the universe that despised him so. He would never feel again.
The door to his self-imposed sarcophagus opened on rusty hinges, but curiosity did not stir within Endymion to look. Only when a beacon of color approached his vague field of vision did he bother to concentrate on the figure at the edge of his bed. A tall man was there in a yellow sparring uniform, a belt of brown wrapped around his waist. He stood like a proud oak tree, his hands formally clasped behind his back. Endymion had met men like this before – generals with nothing but duty to fill their souls. His uncle was one of those men.
"This is the first time you have been awake for more than a few minutes and lucid enough to explain your current situation. I am sure you wonder where it is you now reside," the man spoke with a high voice.
The room's new occupant paused, obviously awaiting questions or concerns from his bed ridden companion. Endymion looked away, staring at the wall and seeing oblivion. A few moments of silence passed before the newcomer recovered and filled the space with his words.
"My name is Scholar Garin and I am a member of the Shom-car. You are waylaid at our monastery, Roganast, in the Indre Mountains," the man explained, his tone resembling that of a lecturer before his classroom. "You have been with us for a total of eight days since we found you in Ginova. We set your leg and cast it without much issue. Your bullet wound was troublesome, but we were able to save your life."
If Garin expected a reverent thanks, he instead received no response from the buried prince. Had Endymion been looking, he might have noticed Scholar Garin shift his weight from one foot to the other. "Is there anything you require?" Again, he was met with a desperate quiet. "Friend, I guarantee your safety while in our care and you will be given all the time you need to recover. Should you need anything, please pull the lever to the right of your bed and myself or another member of my order will assist you."
The Scholar stole away, the door's hinges announcing his departure. The dark son did not move for many breaths, his only indicator that time past in this place. There was nothing he wanted to do, or see. He hoped if he did not move, he would eventually cover over with moss and return to the earth like a fallen, dead tree. Idly, he thought about holding his breath until blackness overtook him, but he knew it would not be permanent. He looked about, trying to find anything that might assist his flight into the abyss, but there were no sharp things or twisting cords. Head swirling with turmoil, Endymion struck the bed with his fist and felt the quick burn of pain in his shoulder. In his madness, he reached up and clawed away at his bandage, ignoring the pain at doing so.
Freed from its imprisonment, Endymion could tell the wound was still not healed as raw skin was struck through with red lines beneath the skin and a pattern of stitches wove across the surface. Without remorse, Endymion ripped at the careful surgeon's work. Agony throbbed through him and against his will, moans and cries escaped his traitorous lips. Yet he dug on, pulling them out and leaving a wreckage behind. Broken nails tore at his skin and fresh blood poured once again from his injury. The prince's madness danced and rejoiced at the sight as it began to collect against his pillow and down his arm. The pain made Endymion's head reel and his heart race. His vision blurred and he welcomed the sight, hoping this time his blood would not stop until it all ran out. Somewhere, deep within his mind, sense and reason tried to debate with his current actions, but Endymion ignored them.
"By Kin, what have you done?" a voice exclaimed from somewhere that seemed so far away. More raised voices and commotion filled the Prince of Ilgrath's room, but he could not, would not, focus on anything in particular. He fought against hands that suddenly alighted onto his skin and screamed unintelligibly at the prancing shadows. Let me die! he wanted to shout, but could not find the words in the jumble of his incoherent thoughts. Something pierced his good arm and a quick listlessness settled over him. As unconscious took him, Endymion sighed with relief.
Seconds later, or perhaps hours and days, the prince heard disembodied voices hovering over his bed. What substance they had given him was wearing off, but only just.
"He is mad," the familiar voice of Scholar Garin spoke. "We should send him to Sacred Valley Hospital where he will receive better care."
"No," a new voice decided after a pause. It was deep, like the sound of an old oak tree bending in the wind. "This young man fell into our custody for a reason and here he must remain. It is not medicine that he needs. If we cannot help him rise above this malaise, then few could."
"What shall we do then?" Garin asked.
"Someone will need to be with him at all times," the older man announced. "For now, let the boy rest. Give him the stronger sedative and let his mind rest."
"Yes, Master."
Warmth flooded Endymion's veins and pulled him to sleep once more.
No dreams plagued him this time, just a sweet oblivion where no thoughts or memories could bombard his mind. With remorse, Endymion could not hold on to the emptiness forever. Reality came creeping back to his unwanted senses. He heard the muffled sounds of chatty birds and the slow shuffling of thick paper. For a moment, the prince could believe he was a small boy again as he sat beneath his father's feet in a room that smelled of leather and home.
The young man knew that could never be again. He had no home. He kept his eyes shut against the life beyond for time, unwilling to waken completely. It did not matter what lay out there. Nothing mattered anymore. Even as he thought these dark things, he felt a light presence pressing against his chains. He had no reason to hope, to wonder, to live anymore, but a thin thread of stubborn life still clung to him somehow. He wanted to shake it off, but it pestered him regardless of his wants. The scratch of turning pages continued every few minutes and curiosity, an emotion he thought he might never feel again, finally compelled Endymion to return to the world of the living.
Another piece of furniture graced his room and upon this simple chair reposed a man. One long limb was crossed upon the other, providing a resting spot for a large tome. Endymion's new arrival wore a uniform of powder blue and a belt of night. His features resembled those that lived on the northern continent where ice seemed to condense on the skin and hair of its inhabitants, making most of them of pale skin and hair. The man before him, however, seemed to have hair made completely of snow. One rebellious, white strand dared fall against his cheek, while the others remained obediently stationed in a tail.
Endymion watched and waited, wondering when this newcomer would take note of the prince's wakefulness, but the fellow kept his eyes focused on his reading material. The young heir found himself relieved at not having to answer any prodding questions, or listen to another person's drivel. He did not wholly embrace silence, however. In the void, it would be easy to think, to remember, and he wished to do neither. So Endymion tried to pull from the shelves of his mind what he could remember about the Shom-car.
The Ilgrathian knew where he was, although there had not been a cause to step foot in Roganast before. The monastery was almost a hundred miles from where White Harbor stood and was secluded from the main land. Roganast perched atop a mountain in the Yakushin Island chain which tapered from the top Ilgrath as if they were the remnants of skipping stones from a playful giant. Endymion wondered how a member of the order could have found him in the high mountains of Ginova and brought him, undiscovered, to the very tips of his homeland.
The Shom-car was a strange order from what little else Endymion knew. They called themselves monks, but those that graduated from the institution could become sell swords or bodyguards for hire, scientists, doctors and scholars, or notaries and religious persons. They were famed for their dedication to contracts, but also for their concurrent prices.
Endymion listened to the sounds outside and tried to paint a mental picture of the grounds. He could hear the clicking of wood, sometimes fast and erratic, other times practiced and repetitive. He must be close to the training grounds where Shom-car learned the art of warfare. Running water chimed outside and every once in awhile he could see a tree limb wave to him through the window. Above it all he could hear a drone of human voices singing an endless chant. The cacophony of noises seemed surreal and healing to Endymion's battered soul.
With a thump, the prince's quiet companion shut his novel and looked expectantly towards the door. Scholar Garin strode into the room a couple seconds later burdened by a silver tray. He gave a curt nod to the man in the chair.
"Provost Prelan, I have come to relieve you," he announced. The changing of the guard complete, Garin dropped the tray on the side table and disappeared into the bathroom. Endymion heard water begin to run and minutes later the scholar returned with two buckets. Garin set to work, pulling the prince's covers down to expose his bare chest. Nimble fingers undid the bandage around his shoulder and began to clean the wound with delicate precision.
"Well, this has been a rather exciting time," Garin said. "We have not had an outsider on the grounds for so many days in a very long time. Most people seem to want to forget about us. That is, until they need our services. There are only a few of us assigned to your care and all the others want to know more about you. I have told them there is little to say, as you say so very little yourself. And all the excitement happening in Ginova below. Did you know that Erasmar-"
Endymion moved with a sudden vengeance, upending the silver tray and sending its contents spiraling across the room. At the mention of the traitor's name, the former heir felt his blood boil and he burst with a consuming rage. The last thing he wanted to hear was his uncle's name. He wanted to forget about it all, forget about the outside world and the evil within. To his credit, Garin did not cry out in alarm nor did he protest against Endymion's outburst. Calmly, he stood and collected the discarded items before returning to his work. This time, however, he moved the tray out of Endymion's grasp.
"I suppose, from your reaction, you do not wish to hear about the happenings of those in lower latitudes. I will refrain from speaking of them more. But I must make a confession- I do not enjoy the silence. Ah, I am glad that your stitches did not rip." Blots of red came from the cotton he touched to Endymion's shoulder. The young man had not even felt any pain as the anger inside dulled everything else. He let his emotions settle, ebbing away like forceful waves giving up ground to the tides. Garin made quick work of Endymion's injury for his second attempt lest his work be thwarted again. He reached down to a basin of water and brought back a wet cloth. Warmth and the smell of soap touched Endymion senses as Garin gently scrubbed his worn body.
"It has never been one of my strengths, the stillness, which is why it is one of my Burdens. Do you know of our Attribute Training? When we arrive at the monastery we are tested by the Grand Master. I cannot tell you the specific details as they are closely guarded, but he sees our weaknesses and strengths and names them for all the Masters to hear. Those we must strive to overcome are our Burdens and those we must foster, our Virtues. If we do not defeat our Burdens, we can never graduate from the Shom-car. We take the test at the end of each year to see if some have been beaten, or if new ones have awoken. A Shom-car must overcome all obstacles and the greatest one is often the self."
Garin continued to chatter as he cleansed Endymion's body. The would-be king half-heartedly listened, but the scholar kept to his word and avoided ill subjects regardless. All energy and emotions seemed to have took flight after his episode. The silver lining Endymion had felt when the white haired man read quietly in the corner was gone, only to be replaced with numbness. He could not even muster the chagrin as Garin reached more private areas to cleanse. It did not matter how they washed him, how they dressed his wounds or fed his body. He felt his soul was tarnished and beyond saving.
After a time, two more bodies occupied the room and Garin introduced them only for Endymion to instantly forget their meaningless names. With fluid grace Garin and his helpers removed his soiled bedclothes and covers and replaced them with material that smelled like a bright summer afternoon. They forced Endymion to sit up and consume a light broth and he complied with a sullen detachment. The small group of Shom-car spoke to one another at length, but there was an air of caution to their words. Endymion could imagine them watching him out of the corner of their eyes at all time, wondering when he would break like before.
Garin remained for a few more hours, prattling on about anything he deemed worthy or time consuming. His voice became such a steady rhythm to Endymion's surroundings, he instantly noticed when the older man no longer spoke. Against his wishes, he turned to see if the man was still there. Sitting beside his bed, Endymion's guardian sat with a strange expression, as if there were thoughts and words banging against his mouth wishing to escape. Garin did open his mouth, but stalled whatever might come out with a quick shake of his head.
"I will save that for another time, I think," he finally said. "After all, one of my Virtues is patience." A knock at the door brought back one of the Shom-car from before and Garin stood, stretching his limbs like a cat. "Until next time, friend."
For the next few weeks, Endymion's life became the same routine. His attendants, four in number, appeared at the same time each day and patient and caretakers eased into a steady motion. Some bathed him, while others fed him and read to him. They would massage his muscles and move his limbs, albeit carefully with his shattered left leg. Sometimes two would watch over him and keep each other company against his silent presence. He began to learn their names and mannerisms, although he tried to remain aloof. Provost Oondari, his only woman attendant, would often play a small string instrument and hum along to songs Endymion did not know. She may have been heralded in court for a spectacular beauty once, but the long scar that ran down her face and into the blue collar of her uniform would forever bar her from such frivolities.
Scholar Leland read from books of poetry to books of theory, his voice rich with the Ginovese accent. His red hair was cut short like a stern military man's, but the way he poured feeling into each passage spoke of a man with a lighter soul. He also seemed to write his own works and would ask Endymion for his opinion on certain phrases knowing the mute prince would never answer. The only one whose voice Endymion did not know was the fair haired man who read in the chair, Provost Prelan. He never spoke to the prince or to the others and would either meditate with closed lids or keep his eyes enraptured with the pages of a book. Endymion did not feel any hatred from the man and often felt more at peace when he was around, like he was a precious foothold as the mountain around him crumbled. In silence, they were kindred spirits, and the idea brought Endymion some peace. His thoughts turned from their dark intent to allow him to appreciate the lilt in Leland's voice and the vibrations in Oondari's strings. He even found he paid more attention to Garin's stories and lectures.
Yet the shadows still remained tangled inside him. He would feel a crippling pain when his handlers mentioned their friends and family or when they spoke of humorous moments around the campus. Endymion forgot what it was to smile even when he saw their faces light up with amusement. Sometimes his depression would wretch his heart unprovoked. He would be listening to the steady rain outside and wash away inside, everything crumbling and dissolving. Endymion still checked his mates instinctively for sharp objects or fast escapes from his reality, but they were vigilant in his care. All the while he never spoke a word to his companions. There was nothing to be said, nothing that would change the past or bring back his innocence. The future could be no better, but yet something like hope dared to grow beneath the ash and dust of his sorrow.
Slowly, Endymion's wounds began to heal.
+++++
"It is time to test out those legs of yours," Garin announced a month into Endymion's recovery. "It is long overdue, I think, but there is no time like the present I hear."
Garin, Oondari and Leland were all present to assist him. Endymion did not argue nor resist and followed their instructions with mild interest. Even though they moved him and massaged his dull limbs, it would feel good to rise from his living tomb. He took a few cautionary steps, heavily draped over Leland and Garin's shoulders, testing out his encased leg. The pain was steady, but dull, and the prince made sure he put more weight on his other foot for balance. They took him for a few turns around the room, praising him and laughing together, and Endymion felt his heart buoyed at their support. The brothers of the order did not return him to the bed, but guided him to the bathroom for his first true look inside. It was modest but fully operational with a sink, toilet and large ceramic tub. Steam curled its way to the ceiling from the warm water in its depth and Endymion could smell lavender wafting from the surface.
As they helped him disrobe and dip into the pool of water, Endymion let out a weary sigh. He had not realized how heavy his limbs had become, or how tight all of his muscles wrapped around his bones. Garin made sure to prop the cast out of the water and then Endymion was left alone. It was still in the small room as it seemed none of the noises from outside could reach this secluded place. The only thing he heard was the rhythm of his own breathing and the slosh of water when he dared move. He wanted to shake off his cast and cover his whole broken body in the warmth, to let it wash over him and fill the cracks in his soul.
Endymion remained until the water lost its heat and his body began to protest against the coming cold. As if hearing his unspoken cue Garin and Leland appeared. Gently, they persuaded the water to release the prince and helped him back into the main room. They did not return him to his comfortable confinement, but stopped at the threshold of a choice. Provost Oondari stood with the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling in affection behind a wheelchair made of metal.
"We would like to show you something," she said. "The leaves are starting to fall around the monastery and it is a beautiful sight. Would you like to see our world in the autumn?"
In the embrace of the scented water, Endymion had felt some of his desolation seep from his pores. Breathing in the sweetness had brought life back into his veins, but thinking about the world outside made him cower. His mind traveled back, seeing flashes through the woods, feeling the cold steel bite into his leg all over again. Endymion could never see himself leaving the safe womb of this room ever again. Ashamed of himself, the prince stumbled out of his caretakers' arms and onto the bed with his face buried in the pillows. He could not see them, but he imagined the three monks sharing a look of disappointment.
Feet shuffled against the terracotta floor and grew dim and forgotten. The chair in the corner creaked and scuffed against the floor, its mass sighing as it embraced a body. If Endymion turned his head down he would see who occupied the seat, but after a moment knew without a glance. The soft strings of a wooded instrument were plucked into a nameless song.
"Today is not a failure, my friend," Oondari contradicted his thoughts with a whisper. "You were alone for the first time in months when you were bathing. And here you are, whole and breathing. There are stars shining through the darkness."
As she began to hum and sing like a quiet wind, realization washed over Endymion. The four watchers had not trusted him to be without their careful eyes since he tore his stiches, but it was more than that. For the first time, the prince had not checked for a means of permanent escape, or even contemplated filling his lungs with the lavender water. He almost berated himself for missing the opportunity. Yet, a part of him that was growing stronger and stronger, soared with joy. Perhaps he had the courage to fight on.
Two days later, Endymion remembered how to breathe. The air was crisp through the shutters and filled his lungs. Laughter and voices trickled through the walls and took hold within his heart. The prince had joined in revelry in a lifetime ago, but could now follow the steps again. Some part of him was still shattered, but a desire to escape his bleak world took hold within his breast. The white haired Provost Prelan sat in his usual biblio-graphic position and did not respond to Endymion's sudden reanimation. The young man of Ilgrath did not focus on him, however, but at the mobile chair on the other side of the room. With careful abandonment he emerged from the bed and began a wobbling trek across the hard floor. The bed was a gentle coach, but he faced a vast expanse where no help could be found. There was little pain in his injured leg now, but the cast made walking awkward. He hobbled for a few feet before the encumberment caught on the beige edge of a tile and caused him to tumble.
Endymion lay for a moment, feeling the cool clay against his cheek. The leather bound tomb of his silent friend closed like a door somewhere above him, but the prince did not hear the shuffling of feet come near. Palms pressed against tile, Endymion pushed himself upwards and onwards towards his goal. He crossed the cool desert with his oasis in sight, crawling and scooting as best he could. For a while it seemed it grew no closer until finally his fingertips touched against the slick metal leg. Thankful the wheelchair was locked into place, Endymion tugged himself up an inch at a time. His arms shook with strain as sweat peaked against his brow, but the prince climbed with dedication. He could see the mountains between the borders of Ilgrath and Ginova towering above him, could feel the ground coarse beneath his bare feet. He had conquered those lofty heights; he would not be undone by a chair.
As Endymion collapsed into the comfortable seat, he let out a triumphant blast of air from his mouth. Glancing over, he caught the eyes of the room's other inhabitant. From the distance of his bed he had never noticed how clear they were, like an icicle catching the blue sky beyond. Those orbs regarded him with an impatient air, as if they knew Endymion had the will all along. Yet there was a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of pale lips that pierced the wall of his metal heart. The prince of Ilgrath could not stop the hot tears from falling. His pain seemed to leak from him and the memories of the past few weeks bubbled to the surface. He wept for failures laid at his feet and for this small victory against the darkness always pressing in, coaxing him to give up. For the realization that nothing would the same, including him. And mostly he cried for the fact that in this place, with the constant hum of a hundred voices, he was alone.
When his soul was wrung out and dried, Endymion once again glanced at the brother with him. Prelan had not moved, nor returned to his large text. Long fingers were laced on top the cover and his strange eyes were for Endymion only. The heir saw no discontent in them, nor disgust at his weakness. There was only a quiet understanding, as if those gateways had seen horrors of their own.
"I…" For a moment, Endymion found it difficult to remember syllables and common phrases, but under the gaze of this voiceless man he found the courage to become a lyric in the song of the world again. "I would like to see the world outside, please."
With a nod, the monk rose to his service. The wheels of the chair clicked to a constant rhythm as they passed across the grouted tiles of Endymion's room and then the matching hallway beyond it. The sounds of the complex came rushing towards him like a persistent wind and he could see the end of the sand colored hallway give way to the bright colors of nature. He took comfort from the strong force behind him pushing him on and realized, even in silence, Prelan had been propelling him all along. As an animal steps out into the world after the cold cycle of winter, Endymion once again came out into the sunlight.
