Some Long-Forgotten Tales
Iohmar remembers when first he realized his parents could be frightening.
Remembers his mother contorting magic to offer his father a lifeline before the rippling lands could swallow him. Remembers the moon and stars falling empty and lightless, all of Látwill devoid of time and place for the few moments she took. How her magic enveloping their world stole each of Iohmar’s senses from him, and how, for a few seconds, he was utterly helpless.
Remembers his father bringing an entire mountain to its knees when he returned, pushing the creatures back long before the last battle even began.
Iohmar didn’t fear them; he never feared them. But neither did he see them as when he was a child, innocent and misunderstanding of the nature of magic.
Lor’s scream is nothing more than a quiet noise, a sudden gasp of surprise. Dáithí, his footsteps having faded, likely doesn’t hear. It lasts not even a full breath, but Iohmar flinches nonetheless. Lor stares at him, shock in his eyes, hands frozen around the fawn, and it takes Iohmar too long to find his voice.
“It’s all right, Lor,” he whispers. It’s not enough a lie to stop his words, but his voice tastes bitter in the back of his throat.
Lor blinks, clinging to the tiny deer. Iohmar offers a hand, wanting to comfort him—to comfort them both—but the boy is out of arm’s reach. Iohmar’s vision spins when he leans forward.
“What’s wrong?” Lor’s whisper is harsh. His clothes are dripping on the leaves, and Iohmar wants to tell him to change so he’ll be warm.
“I . . .” Iohmar doesn’t know how to continue, how to tell the truth while keeping the boy unhurt. He invited him in, meaning to tell him, meaning to be braver than he feels, but words have fled his lips. “Sometimes I fall ill. You needn’t worry, Wisp.”
Lor’s eyes wander his body, following the trails of rot. Does he believe? Lor knows he cannot lie, but there is a distinct curve of distrust in his frown. Iohmar touches his finger to the flaking paper of his jaw, feeling nothing unusual but knowing the marks are present. Lor isn’t meeting his eyes.
“I will be all right, Wisp,” he says, his voice far away. He recovered the last two times, so this must be a truth. “I am merely tired.”
Lor steps forward, a small movement that doesn’t put him within Iohmar’s reach. His head cocks, tears turning his eyes to glass. Iohmar hasn’t seen the boy cry since the strange night after the cavern so long ago, and neither has he heard him scream. His breath is picking up, and Iohmar feels unequal to the task of soothing. Is my appearance truly so terrifying to my son? He expected Lor to be frightened, but not to stay out of his reach.
“Lor,” he says, forcing control into his voice, gesturing for him to step closer. “Don’t be afraid.”
Finally, Lor meets his eyes. “You look like my dreams.”
Iohmar blinks. A moment passes before he wraps his head about the words and finds himself more confused than before. Iohmar himself never dreams of falling ill. Even when the sickness began as he crawled with Lor from the caverns, Lor couldn’t have seen much of the rotting cuts in the dark, seated on his back, and certainly not in the severity of this. What put such an image into his mind?
“What?” he asks, slow and uncomprehending. Something here must be obvious but out of his grasp.
Lor hiccups, holding down sobs. “Are my dreams true?”
Iohmar tries once more to sit forward and reach him, but he catches himself against the edge of the bed before his body can take him down.
“Lor, I don’t know what you’re speaking of. What dreams? Come here.”
Still, he doesn’t move from the door. “I dream about you.”
“Yes?” Iohmar prompts when he fails to continue. “I dream of you as well. What did you dream?”
“Many things,” he whispers.
“Lor, tell me.”
He is quiet, little eyebrows pulling together. “Is this why you left me with Dáithí?”
“No, no. I was only looking for Galen.”
Lor’s frown deepens. Iohmar doesn’t understand from where this doubt has sprouted. But those words, at least, are the full truth, not a dance about it.
“What do you dream?” he asks once more.
Lor stares, then glances at the raging storm. He shifts the squirming fawn closer, and his lip trembles. Iohmar wishes so much to gain the strength to rise and snatch the boy into his arms. As it is, he’s losing the battle to keep his head upright. He shouldn’t have stayed on the floor.
“I . . .” Lor hesitates. “Dream about the caves.”
That’s not so unusual. Iohmar dreams of them himself. “Yes?”
“And . . . you come looking for me. But you never find me. Sometimes you look at me and walk by and disappear into the dark. And I’m by myself.”
Iohmar blinks, and by the time he wraps his thoughts around the words, Lor is continuing.
“Sometimes you turn to dust and float away. It looks like that”—he points skittishly to Iohmar’s face—“and I’m buried. And you don’t come back. And I wake up.”
Buried? Iohmar thinks of the caves burying him when he was a boy. Ascia lost. Why would Lor dream such things? Never has Iohmar given him reason to doubt. His heart aches. Where could my little boy have gained such fears? He thinks of the nights when Lor climbs under his covers to cuddle within the circle of his arms. Was he hiding from nightmares?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were having such awful dreams?”
Lor shrugs, turning his face.
Iohmar doesn’t believe he’s going to receive a better answer. Softly, he asks, “Do you have others?”
“Sometimes,” Lor whispers.
