He heard his name. Muted but escalating in volume.
Aerwen.
The door handle rattled so hard he thought it might shatter the surrounding glass. While enduring great agony, he dragged himself across the floor and reached a shaking hand toward the lock. He sagged again in defeat. The pain was excruciating. Someone continued to scream his name.
Wezlei clenched his jaw and shot his arm up again. His fingers grasped for the cold metal and connected but slipped. With a grunt, he raised up on one fractured elbow… this time, his fingers made purchase. The lock turned, and he slumped back to the floor.
He couldn’t see her. Knowing she was there with him sent a healing surge to his soul, but his body was broken and, in hindsight, he didn’t know how he’d managed to get to safety at all.
Wezlei came up off the floor. He was in the air. No, Aerwen’s arms. She had lifted him, and the world was moving, shifting, as she transported him to the back room.
“I can fix this,” she whispered. Her tears dotted his face.
“What… you…”
“Later,” she promised. She carefully laid his broken body on the wooden workbench. “I will tell you everything. Right now, I need you to be okay, Wezlei, because you’re not. And I’m not okay, either. I’m going to help you so you can help me. Because that’s what we do, darling, isn’t it? We save one another.”
Wezlei’s head rolled to the side. The cold oak surface was soothing against his bruises. “I love you.”
“Shh, now. Let me do what I came here to do.”
XII- Aerwen
September 26, 4 AS
Wezlei had used the last of his energy to let her in the shop. Adrenaline pulled him from death’s door to turn the lock. And that was it. All he had.
Aerwen had very little strength after her own ordeal, but she would deal with it later. If what she now believed was true, healing Wezlei would give him what he needed to turn around and heal her.
He lay unmoving on the work table. The only sign of life was the occasional shallow rise of his chest. But his pulse was strong; Aerwen could work with that.
She laid one hand tight on his forehead. The other, she wrapped around his wrist. Aerwen exhaled as the transfer of her nature’s energy jumped from beneath the surface of her skin to his. She had so little left to give. This had to work.
As her energy receded, Aerwen lay at his side, careful not to break the connection. She couldn’t fight the powerful weariness that overcame her, and she slipped into a state deeper than sleep, praying to Arda that when Wezlei awoke, he could do the same for her. If he awoke.
No, not if. He must. The universe had not placed them together and given them so much hope only to steal it away as their lives dwindled and returned to nature in the back of a small shop.
My silly, curious Human. My handsome, wonderful, kind Human. My heart.
Aerwen closed her eyes while her mind fluttered away from the world around her.
The aches in Aerwen’s body started in her skull and ended… well, they didn’t end. Pain seemed to go on forever, reaching deep into the tissue and extending through every vein, every capillary.
Yet her wounds had healed. The bruises on her body faded to whispers. Her sense of leaving the world had been replaced by a desire to remain firmly rooted to its core.
Wezlei smiled at her. He sat at her side, brushing the hair from her forehead where it had become matted. His own skin was clear and shining with youth and health. She studied him, searching for any signs of the assault, but found none. Her magic had worked.
Yet, so had his.
They spent the next hour sharing experiences. Wezlei’s anger spread visibly across his cheeks as Aerwen relayed how Tariq had left her shackled for nearly six days with only filthy water to sustain her. She left out the worst of it. The physical abuse. The violent rapes.
During his own telling, her anger was replaced by confusion. Why had they left Wezlei for dead? If they didn’t suspect him of anything more than being in the wrong place, why the overreaction? From Tariq, she would expect this, but his men didn’t necessarily share his trigger fury.
“Maybe they feared his reaction if he found out they didn’t deal with me,” Wezlei offered.
“Possibly.” Aerwen didn’t know if their motivation mattered, but she would shelve her analysis for now. She had other news for Wezlei that mattered more. The outside light was already dimming. “We have more urgent topics to discuss, Wezlei. I still don’t know what it means, but maybe we can figure it out together.”
Wezlei’s eyes widened, but he said nothing and only nodded at her to continue.
Aerwen looked down at her hands. The arthritic-like pain from only moments before had faded to near nothing. This restoration was impossible, unless... “I’m with child. Before you ask, I know the wee one is yours. I know it for an absolute fact.”
He fell back on his hands, pulling in a sharp breath of the still air between them. His jaw dropped, formed words, then swallowed them again. He shook his head.
“I know why you’re silent,” she said. “You’re afraid of saying something you believe will hurt me.”
Wezlei lifted his head and met her eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “Aerwen, I don’t care who the father is. I won’t leave you, and I won’t leave the baby. I’ll raise him or her as my own, and the child will never know any different. You don’t have to worry about me going anywhere.” He checked around the room, focusing on a distant corner. “But how can you… please forgive me, because what Tariq has done to you is not your fault and he will die for his crimes… how can you know with such certainty…”
“How can I know?” Aerwen stood, making her way around, so she was in front of him. She spread her arms wide. “Look at me, Wezlei. Not only now, at this moment, but think back to the time you first saw me chained to Tariq’s ship. Or collapsed on the corner in front of your shop. Has anything changed?”
Wezlei’s glassy eyes were heavy with the many thoughts in his head. “You appear healthy. Better. I don’t know what you were like before Tariq, but maybe you even look the way a Dryad should.”
“Have you asked yourself why?
Wezlei’s mouth had parted before he sealed it again as he shook his head. “No… yes… I suppose I assumed it was because you were happy.” He turned away as if suggesting he might be the source of her happiness was shameful.
“Happiness is part of it,” Aerwen said gently. It was. “But Wezlei, from the first moment I stepped inside your shop, I felt myself heal. Prior to that, not only my soul was dying, but my body. Loving you restored my soul even though other forces entirely are responsible for restoring my physical self back to fighting form. Only another Dryad can do this.”
Wezlei scrunched his face into a frown. “You never mentioned there was another Dryad in the Complex.”
Aerwen sighed. It faded to a laugh. “You, sweet boy. You are the Dryad. At least somewhere in your bloodline, you are. It’s the only explanation to how you have been healing me every single day we’re together, and now, how I’m with child.” Before he could protest, which he was certain to do, she added, “Only another Dryad can create a child with me. Tariq knew this, too and used it as a selling point with the horrible creatures he sold me to. It’s not biologically possible for me to be pregnant unless the father is also a Dryad.”
“But…” Wezlei jumped off the table in a daze. “Maybe one of the… er… clients…”
“No,” she said, her voice firm. “No Dryad would ever harm another Dryad like that. My parents made their choices to self-preserve, but we don’t ever inflict intentional harm on each other. It goes against our species in every way. Not possible.”
“It isn’t possible for me to be a Dryad, either!” His hand reached for hers and squeezed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But there’s nothing remarkable about me, Aerwen, and there never will be. I’m just a Human, nothing more or less.”
“Your mother is Human. What about your father?”
>
“Definitely a Human.”
“Definitely? What do you remember about him?”
Wezlei scoffed. “Nothing. He left before I had memories.”
“So how do you know he was Human?”
“My mother would have mentioned if my father was a Meta,” he said, tilting his head as if to say come on now.
“Unless she didn’t,” Aerwen said. “Or couldn’t.”
He laughed. “Or because he was Human, like everyone else in our village.” He paused and folded his hands under his chin. “Don’t you think if my father were a Dryad I’d know? Wouldn’t I share some of your abilities?”
Aerwen’s face broke into a slow smile. “Oh, you mean like being able to heal?”
Wezlei flushed. “We still don’t know that’s what I did.”
“I know. I know I was weeks from dying when I met you, and now I feel nearly as restored as I did living in Arda. I know when being tortured I am tired and weak, but the moment I step into your presence, I begin the cycle of renewal. Why is it so hard for you to see that evidence?”
“You’re asking me to question everything I know about myself,” he said after a long silence.
“Our whole lives have changed in less than a quarter,” Aerwen countered. “You came here for me, and when I asked why, you didn’t really know. You just said it seemed like something you needed to do. That’s not even a little curious to you, Wezlei? You gave up your whole life for a Dryad you’d never met and didn’t know anything about. Do you realize that Dryads are naturally drawn to one another’s presence? If you throw a hundred creatures in a room together, the Dryads will gravitate toward each other like magnets. We love all creatures, but we thrive together. We don’t seek out other races. When asked, we can never explain it beyond ‘feeling right.’ Sound familiar?”
Wezlei’s only response was a light sigh. Confirmation, in his own way.
“Tell me everything you know about your father,” she pressed.
He crossed his arms over his chest and drew in a deep breath. He released it and quickly answered. “My mother never said much about him. It’s a sore subject in our home.”
“But you do know a few details. You have some of your father’s books.”
“He must have loved to read because he left dozens of books behind. All from the old world. Written on paper, of all things,” he replied. “They’re mine now. My mother never read much. I always got the impression that my father was the one who taught my mother her botany. She used to mumble about ‘your father’s recipe, not mine,’ when something didn’t work. I asked her once, and she said it didn’t matter. She just stared at me. That’s always how she still answers me when she doesn’t want to discuss a topic, with a hard glare.”
“Botany isn’t a very common profession among Humans. Witches are typically sought after for their herbs and tonics.” Aerwen didn’t speak the next words out loud, but they both heard them anyway. And Dryads.
“That’s why she never did well outside of our village. Everyone already had a Witch or Wizard to contact when they needed potions.”
“Did your mother ever say why your father left?”
Wezlei snorted. “Her answer depends on her mood.”
“And?”
“If she was in a good mood, my father, ‘had a whole world awaiting him, one bigger and better than ours.’ If she was in a foul mood… well, I won’t repeat those words.”
“Do you think they loved one another?”
“What does that have to do with him maybe being a Dryad?” Aerwen noted the defensiveness that crept into his tone.
She chose her response carefully. “Have you ever considered your father may have left your mother because he loved her?”
Wezlei shot her a look along with the sarcasm in his words. “Sure. Makes perfect sense.”
Aerwen’s eyes caught the dimming light outside. “I have to go. But please think about your father. Maybe you’ll remember something. Whatever happens, though, the child changes everything.” She pulled his hands to hers. “I’m willing to listen to a plan, if you have one, for eliminating Tariq from the picture. If he finds out I’m pregnant, he’ll do something incomprehensible. I can’t let that happen.”
Wezlei lifted her hands to his mouth, smiling through the kisses. “With our child coming now, we’re not just making decisions for ourselves. I don’t have the answer, but I’ll think of something. Soon. Very soon. I promise.”
Aerwen stole one final kiss and backed away from her love, toward the entrance to the store. She wanted to end on this feeling and not the other eating away at the corners of her happiness… the one that reminded her the likelihood of all three of them coming out of this alive was not good.
XIII- Wezlei
September 26, 4 AS
Starlight blanketed the field behind their small cabin. Wezlei clapped as his mother hummed the low, urgent song she often sang while she worked. Always at night. Always under the stars, where she said she felt the safest.
Wezlei didn’t know the words. He could repeat them in his head but was too young to understand or speak them from his own mouth. Whether she sang or hummed, they came to him like abstract intonations, which would later remind him of memorizing a passage in a foreign language.
He clapped instead at the sound of her voice and the little bit of dance burgeoning in his heart.
When the lovely sound came to a halt, Wezlei rolled over on his blanket. His hands grasped at his toes as he rolled around under the night sky, listening while his mother’s bare feet grew closer in the dewy grass.
“Mama, Mama, Mama,” he repeated, giggling in between each word, rolling without releasing his toes. “Mama!”
“The witching hour,” she replied in a thoughtful, distant voice. She paused, shifting the basket of clippings to her hip. “Also, your birthday.”
“Day!” Wezlei parroted. The whole word was too much for his developing language. “Day.”
“Do you know what that means, Wezlei?”
“Day!”
His mother gave him a soft, patient smile and set down her basket. She stretched out beside him on the blanket, flexing her legs from knee to toe. “No, of course, you don’t. But I have a story for you, your story, and though the words mean nothing to you now, they may one day. If they do, then I’ll know I was right in telling them.”
“Mama,” Wezlei cooed and rolled up against her thigh.
“Yes, you know me, your Mama. I wish you could have known your father, though. You’ll grow up presuming many things about him, but you will not know what made him worth being your father to begin with. You’ll never know the many wonderful traits about your father that caused me to fall in love with him.
“You’ll only wonder why he left. And, to protect you, I won’t be able to say. I’ll pretend he was a cad or a gambler. Maybe a philanderer. Anything but the truth, which would place you in danger and isolate you in a world that’s not yours.”
Wezlei let go of his toes and watched his mother.
“I never intended to fall in love with your father, Wezlei. I had no stars in my eyes when I met him in the plaza. He never said what he was doing there. I only knew he no longer wanted to be in his home or among his people. Your father loved his people, of course, but there were so few left, and it made him sad to be one of a dwindling race. He wanted to forge his own path in the world and put that behind him. Dryads, you see, had been captured, one by one, by Dhampir and other malevolent races. Sold into slavery, never to live free lives again. The March of the Dryads, where many of their leaders left the lush world of Arda and made their way into the broader Seldova system, is one of the saddest tales in modern history. You’ll read about it one day, but will you understand you are reading the story of your own people? Time will tell.
“I did love your father, and he loved me. He never concerned himself with the impracticalities of that love, and I never knew what they were, not until it was far too late for either of us.
; “During that time, the Arda Council enacted the Dryadic Purity Law. The day your father got wind of it was the day before I learned I was carrying you. All Dryads of any pedigree, whether pure blood or mixed, were ordered back to Arda to begin the restoration of the race. The law was made with good intentions. Dryads were on the verge of extinction, Wezlei, and they had to do something. Who could blame them? But it was a terrible mandate for those Dryads who had found a happy life here. No one but Dryads were allowed to return, either. This proclamation was about preservation of a race, you see, and there was no room for Humans in their world. Your father was insistent he wouldn’t go, even though the law gave him no choice.
“Then he began to hear about the patrols scouring the system for any signs of Dryads. The first time they came, he paid them no mind, but after the second and third time, he expressed his worry to me. He promised me we would find a way, but I knew better. Once I shared with him the news of your impending arrival, he had already made up his mind. If he returned alone, surrendering to the life they commanded, the patrols would leave us alone. If he did not comply, they would learn about the pregnancy, and you would be forced into that life as well. For you would be more than half-blood. I, too, carried the Dryadic bloodline, though I never knew where in my heritage to look.
“I was so angry with your father, Wezlei. He had decided for the both of us, and while I understood what motivated the decision, he gave me no choice in the matter. He didn’t ask my opinion or if I was up for a life in hiding, where we could all be together.
“He stayed until you were born. I will never forget the single tear sliding down his cheek as he kissed your forehead. The very next day, he filed your birth paperwork, and on it, under ‘Father,’ he paid to file it with his name permanently retracted. The day after, he was gone.”
The world whizzed by Wezlei as his mother lifted him, cradling him against her breast. “So you see, my darling boy, you are so much more than you may ever know. Your father told me once that every last memory a Dryad has is stored in his mind, and with the right focus, they can access even the moment of their birth. Imagine! If he is right, then one day you will remember these words, and know what I couldn’t tell you. You’ll forgive me, and perhaps even him, and you will be able to decide for yourself whether your life should be lived as a Human or a Dryad. For you are both, son. The choice, one day, will be yours as to which you embrace with your whole heart.”
The Last Dryad: The Complex Page 6
