* * * * *
“O-kim-hayatını bağışlaması için uygun gördüm.”
He awoke to find the woman kneeling at his side. Her hands accentuated her words as she poured droplets from a water skin onto a rough cloth and dabbed blood off of his skin. He gradually came to understand that she explained to him his injuries. She was beautiful, exotic by the standards of his people with her wavy black hair, olive skin and unusual tawny beige eyes. Eyes that seemed … familiar.
Root race flitted through his mind along with a sensation he had just won a wager. Damantia! He grabbed the elusive thought, but it went as quickly as it had appeared. He knew things, but he just couldn't remember them!
He tried to sit up, but the woman pushed him back down, communicating with her hands that she wanted him to remain immobile. He strained to translate, but no part of her language sounded familiar. A mission clawed at his belly, screaming for him to communicate something to somebody in authority, but he couldn't remember what he felt so compelled to finish or who he was supposed to communicate that information to. The spin of the room convinced him to obey.
As the woman worked, every nuance of her behavior gnawed at his subconscious like drunken glee. Why did he find her so fascinating? Was it because he found her attractive? She wore a shapeless beige dress that appeared to be little more than a length of cloth belted around her waist and thrown over one shoulder to barely cover the lush fullness of her breasts. The fabric was crude, as were the implements she used to tend his wounds; the tools of a stone-aged culture.
By gods! How had she saved his life? His lungs hurt, but the dizziness finally subsided enough that he dared attempt to communicate with his savior.
“Who are you?"
The woman smiled. She said something unintelligible in reply.
“Who?" He crossed his hands palms-up in the sign of asking a question. “Are you?" He pointed to her chest.
“Nin-si-anna. Who … are … you?" She repeated, word for word what he'd just asked in a heavily accented voice.
He wracked his brain. Nothing came to mind. Ninsianna asked the same question again. How could he explain to someone who didn't speak his language that he couldn't remember who he was?
“I don't know." He covered his eyes and made a gesture as though something flew out of his head.
“Ninsianna,” the woman smiled and pointed to her own chest. “Idonno,” she pointed at him.
“No." He shook his head in frustration. “I don't remember.”
“Ninsianna,” the woman pointed to her own chest and frowned. “Idonrememba,” she pointed at him.
“No, I don't know who I am!" he said. "I can't remember!" He hit his own forehead to emphasize it wasn't working properly and groaned as the stitches holding together the reason he couldn't remember shot pain into his skull. The room began to spin. He closed his eyes until the vertigo subsided.
The woman frowned until it dawned on her what he was trying to say. She touched his head near the stitches and nodded to indicate she understood his head injury was muddling his thoughts. Silently resuming her ministrations, she dabbed dried blood from his scalp, pausing occasionally to pat his wings as though she had never seen such a thing before.
He avoided wincing, not wishing to see her expression of dismay every time he flinched. When she got to his chest wound, she noticed the silver tags strung around his neck. She pointed and asked a question. Pulling the slender chain from beneath his shirt, he read the information etched into the dog tags in boxy cuneiform.
“Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili, 352d SOG, Angelic Air Force." Although the information failed to jog any personal recollection, he understood what it meant.
“You, Ninsianna," he pointed to her chest. "Me … Mikhail."
“Mikhail,” Ninsianna repeated and smiled, speaking a line of gibberish before saying again, “Mikhail.”
Although the name didn't ring any bells, it pleased him to hear her say it aloud. He assumed it was his name because the only reason he would wear dog tags was so his fellow soldiers could retrieve his body for burial. He was a soldier. A soldier who had achieved the respectable rank of Colonel. It wasn't much, but it was something.
She held out her water skin and gestured for him to drink. He nearly emptied it before he realized he should have left some. Ninsianna signaled she was leaving to fetch more water. She gave him a stern look, pointing to the floor and pulling the blanket to his neck, and made the universal hand at the side of her head to signal sleep. The fact they shared the same underlying body language felt oddly reassuring.
"Okay," Mikhail nodded.
Ninsianna touched his cheek, her tawny beige eyes filled with compassion before she rose and exited the ship. As she left, he realized how very vulnerable he was. She would be back … he hoped.
His head hurt. Everything had a surreal glow. Sleep gladly overtook him once more.
Chapter 8
Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One Page 10
