Swirls of color and flashes of light burst in Zenír's vision as he awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. Sweat dampened his unruly brown curls and soaked his nightshirt, and as his racing heart slowed and he caught his breath, he rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Another dream.

In dreams, Zenír could see, and he often experienced such phantom images upon waking. For a time after losing his sight, he had hoped this meant his eyes would yet heal, but eventually he understood it was merely a trick of his mind.

Bedsheets rustled as he pushed them aside and set his feet to the cold floor. Leaning forward and resting his elbows atop his thighs, he laced his fingers around the back of his neck and sighed.

It was the third time in as many days he'd awoken in such a state, the tattered edges of a dream fading too fast for him to recall it except in the vaguest terms: fire and destruction; fear, darkness, and death. The dreams had the flavor of visions, the strange metallic tingle at the back of his tongue that accompanied his second sight, but he hoped they were not; for while he remembered no details, one thing was certain: they were decidedly unpleasant.

Shaking his head as if to shed himself of the dream's lingering influence, he rose and made use of the washstand to refresh himself. Once clean, he dressed from a tall chest of drawers, ran a wide-toothed comb through his curls, slipped his feet into the soft boots he always left beside the door, and grabbed his walking staff from its corner.

Stepping from his private chambers, he made his way towards the communal dining hall as the morning bell rang three times, calling everyone to breakfast.

He'd been given his own room in the great house after Korim more or less claimed him as his assistant. Iksthanis still lived in the guest quarters, which were nearer the Haven's center, and the dining hall was about halfway between.

Gravel crunched beneath Zenír's feet as he walked along the path between the buildings, morning sunlight warmed his face, and crisp autumn air filled his lungs; and yet the smile that touched his lips was tinged with bitterness. He had never felt so free as he did here — even before the loss of his sight — and yet his independence rested on the work of others. Everyone at the Haven did their share, while Zenír merely profited. It had not bothered him so much when he had considered himself a guest, but now that he hoped to make this place his home, a new sense of guilt poisoned every pleasure.

In the dining hall, which bustled the with the buzz and chatter of many people talking and eating at once, he followed the broad aisle between rows of tables and benches to the front of the room, and joined the line of those waiting to be served their morning meal.

When he reached the serving table, the resident on duty greeted him cheerfully.

"'Morning, Zen. Sleep well?"

Zenír recognized the voice of Haster, a motherly ex-Hand who oversaw the vegetable gardens.

"Well enough," he said mildly. "What's on offer this morning?"

"Hearty stone-ground oats with your choice of toppings: roasted seeds and nuts, sweet berries, cream, honey, yogurt, apples, and cinnamon spice."

Zenír's mouth watered at the scent of the roasted sunflower seeds and walnuts, and the faint sweetness of sun-ripened berries. "Plain will do me fine," he said.

"As you like," Haster replied, with the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

When Zenír took his bowl and found a place at the end of a long table, however, he discovered his porridge garnished with plump blackberries, toasted seeds, and rich cream.

"The berries are exceptionally sweet," Iksthanis's deep voice proclaimed as the larger man settled at his side, forcing someone else to move down the bench by the sounds of it. "So, why the sour look?"

Zenír rested his spoon in his bowl and shook his head. There was no sense lying; Thanis could always tell when he wasn't truthful.

"I should know to accept charity with grace by now," he murmured. "But I don't like to take what I have not earned."

"We must each do the work for which we are suited," he said. "I am built like the ox, and I am as strong, so I will work in the fields and the forests, and at the blacksmith's forge, and wherever else my skills are required. You have your own gifts. You are helping Korim decipher the Dweller's secrets — work that is far more important to the fate of Sakkara than the chopping of firewood or the weaving of cloth. And when winter closes down and the rest of us are idle, you will lighten our hearts and lift our spirits with your voice, and with the lute and lyre. They have many fine instruments here."

Zenír took a bite of his breakfast. It was delicious, and there was no sense letting it go cold.

"But there is something else troubling you," Iksthanis said. "I can tell."

"I've been dreaming again," Zenír admitted, laying his spoon aside.

"Premonitions?" Iksthanis asked.

Zenír's mouth twisted with a bitter smile. "Maybe. But if they are, what good is it if I cannot remember them? My second sight is my only gift, and even with it, I am useless."

Iksthanis was silent for so long Zenír's gut twisted with anxiety as he wondered what the other man was thinking, and what he would say. When he spoke, however, it was with the usual measured calm and quiet insight that were the marks of his personality.

"If you think your visions are your only gift, then you are truly blind," Iksthanis said. "You have a beautiful voice and a beautiful heart, and though it matters less, a beautiful face. You yourself are a gift, Zenír, if you ask me."

Despite the sweetness of the berries, a bitter taste flooded Zenír's mouth, and his appetite vanished. He pushed his bowl towards Iksthanis and rose. "Please finish this," he said. "It is far too sweet for me."

"Zenír, wait..."

Hating the disapprobation and imagined disappointment in his friend's tone, Zenír fled the dining hall as swiftly as he could. In the whole of the Haven, there was one place he had proven his worth – had proven he had something more than songs and poetry, and useless dreams to offer – and that was with Korim in the archives.

-✵-

In the week since he'd started working with Korim, Zenír had grown fond of the eccentric old man. Korim spoke and read almost every living language in Sakkara, and suspected that the Dweller tongue would share some similarities with one or more of them, if they could just crack the alphabet.

This was where Zenír came in. Every time he ran his fingertips over the strange, indented markings, he felt he came a little closer to deciphering their meaning. Markings became letters, letters became words, and words grew into phrases. He had 'mapped' a small section of wall like this, and now Korim endeavored to discover some link between the patterns and a known tongue.

"Ve are so close!" Korim exclaimed that afternoon, slamming a fist onto the worktable in his study and starting Zenír. "I can feel it in my creaky old bones!"

Zenír had asked Iksthanis to describe the old man to him, and Iksthanis had complied, describing Korim as energetic despite his years, with a healthy shine to his dark skin and eyes that sparkled like sapphires in a wizened face. He had wiry white hair, like a bristle bush, and a long, somewhat scraggly beard to match.

"I agree, Master," Zenír said, bowing his head. He saw Korim as a mentor, and the old man did not object, and liked the title. "It's like having a word on the tip of my tongue that I cannot quite recall."

"Maddening!" Korim agreed, his reedy voice fraught with passion, and Zenír smiled. As fascinated as he was by their work, Korim seemed truly to live for it.

Some time passed in silence before Korim spoke again, and Zenír had become so absorbed in his work that he startled when the other man's voice broke the silence.

"I have heard you have ze gift of second sight," Korim said, almost offhandedly.

Zenír hesitated, unsure what had prompted the comment. "To a degree," he said. "I am no soothsayer."

He heard Korim's chair scrape the stone floor as he got up and came to where Zenír stood by the wall. "I am not interested in sootsayings. I am interested in meanings. How does it work, your gift?"

"Sometimes, if I meditate and focus my mind, I may experience a vision. Sometimes just a feeling, or a taste, or a smell," Zenír murmured. "And sometimes... I dream."

"Ah! So, you must interpret zese things?" Korim asked.

Zenír smiled. "Yes. It is rarely so plain as 'beware of spiders next Thursday,' or anything so straightforward."

"Well, zat is good! Yes, very good!" Korim murmured.

"What are you thinking, Master?" Zenír asked, smiling at the barely suppressed eagerness in the old man's voice.

He waited and listened as Korim came around the work table and joined him by the wall of Dweller carvings.

"You say zat you can 'sense' ze meaning of ze words, but wis no knowledge of what sounds ze symbols represent, zat is impossible."

Zenír frowned, but nodded. "So it would seem."

"So, I cannot help but wonder if it is your gift zat conveys zis 'sense' to you, and what might happen if you make a conscious effort."

Zenír frowned thoughtfully. "I have never tried to use my gift in such a way, but I suppose it would not hurt to try. Shall I try now?"

"Would you?" Korim asked, sounding as excited as a child teased with the possibility of opening a present before the appointed hour. "What do you need? Candles? Incense?"

"Just a bit of quiet," Zenír said, and smiled.

"Ah! Then quiet you shall have. I will stop talking."

Suppressing a smile, Zenír settled into a meditative state, slowing and deepening his breath and relaxing his body as he moved his awareness from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head and back again. His mind grew still. Thoughts came and went like passing clouds, but the canvas of his mind remained blank, ready to receive whatever came to him.

With a sense of peace permeating his whole being, he inhaled deeply, released his breath, set his fingers to the rough stone of the wall, and ran them lightly over the now familiar engravings.

Zenír grinned. He could see – as if the symbols each made an image that played out in his mind like the storyline of a dream, as he passed his hand along the wall, it came to life.

Then, as suddenly and unexpectedly as a bolt of lightning, the images came too fast and too many, and with a sudden flash of purest white he knew no more.

~~~

Author's Note: Poor Zenír (yes, he fainted 😅). This chapter got so long I decided to cut it in half to make editing easier. So, here's a preview of what's to come (soon, hopefully):

Next time in Healer of Sakkara: A revelation, an argument, and Zenír finally reveals his backstory to Iksthanis!