For a few moments, there is only darkness. The numb abyss one would sink into as consciousness knocks softly at the door, the comforting black that hugs body and soul like a blanket of lavish creepers. The pitter-patter of rain enters the empty space like static, white noise that could only hope to bring a sliver of awareness. Through that awareness come combustible lights and an array of colours as ruby red eyes flutter open to see granules of sand. Sand that grinds watered skin and thin, tattered fabric with the movement of the splashing waves. The wind howls, and maybe the cold is the reason that she finally wakes up, washed ashore on a beach.

Where am I?

The question haunts her waking moments. Water laps at her frame, her feet feel numb with pinpricks of icy pain. Her arms are weak when she braces herself on her elbows, and her legs ache when she manages to sit on her hands and knees. Tattered, wet, salty rags cling to her lean form, clumps of pastel green hair stick to the sides of her face and more strands fall off her back like dried seaweed. Grains of glassy sand grate pruney skin as she holds some in her fist. It almost hurts but there isn't truly any pain, only relief where there is pressure against her fingers, the satisfaction of touching something so earthy, even though it sticks uncomfortably to her palms. Ruby eyes blink, a droplet falls from fluttering lashes.

She is here, she is alive... Should I not be alive?

The thought departs as soon as it arrives. She coughs up water and sputters on the ground as her lungs heave for air. Bile rises in the back of her throat, a headache threatens to split her head in two. Her heart drums against its cage, her aching head pounding in tandem and when she pushes herself to stand, swaying on bare feet, her whole body shivers yet her insides feel like they're burning.

The sky above is grey. Heavy rain pours, flashy lightning strikes somewhere far away. Her senses sharpen and dampen overwhelmingly fast, bringing panic and then taking it away, spilling dread in her veins before it, too, disappears and leaves exhaustion in its place. She hugs herself in an attempt to keep what little warmth her trembling body can offer in this cold weather.

The sandy bay of an unknown island surrounds her, leading up to rocky, eroded cliffs dressed with a forest of tall trees. The air smells like ozone and watered earth and fish, electricity crackles and the sea shines in blinding light. A loud boom follows shortly; thunder. Palm trees dot the shore and fallen coconuts sit at their base, sunken in sand. Water... Her mouth suddenly feels dry, her stomach so empty it could be the bottom of an old well. Something scratches in her ear but she pays it no mind. She hurries, stumbles, and falls to her knees next to the first lithe, ringed tree in her way.

The hairy, brown shell of the coconut cracks open against a sharp rock. The water inside is tasteless but rolls down her throat like sweet honey. Droplets run down her chin and she wipes them away with the back of her hand when she finishes, panting and still trying to swallow what little of the liquid has remained on her tongue. The same happened to the second coconut, and the third that conveniently detached from its perch on the palm tree and almost fell on her head. Then, she scraped the white meat off the walls with her sandy fingers and her nose scrunched up before she put it between her teeth.

Within a couple of minutes, her thirst has been cured and her growling stomach has been momentarily quelled. She discards the empty shells on the beach, alongside conch shells and porcelettas and little clams. In the bay, she spots two row boats moored on the beach with drag marks in the sand leading into the sea.

Lightning strikes too close for comfort. The light blinds her for a moment, and she startles enough to clamber to her feet. She heads towards the rocky cliffs, on which trees and grass shelter the land. Thanks to the salt that has eaten away at the rocks, sharpening them to points and jagged edges to use as footholds, the climb is easy enough, and she rolls on grass before the next boom of thunder rattles the island.

Lying on her back, chest heaving and arms shaking, she sees the leafy crowns of the trees shy away from each other, creating little continents, roads and rivers like a miniature map. I've never seen trees shy away from each other like that... Have I?

Cold wind washes over her, the sort that brings chills and makes hair rise at the back of the neck. Her fingers feel numb but they look completely fine when she raises them to her eyes, albeit wrinkled from soaking in water for so long. Something is... missing. Something that is at the tip of her tongue, a word that should come easy but evades her grasp like a slippery eel. Something is wrong. She doesn't know what, she isn't– And the answer hits her so hard, so suddenly, she chokes on air.

Who am I?

Panic begins to settle in, slowly taking hold of her shaking limbs and increasing the speed of her already racing heart. However, before it can completely take control of her mind and body, its claws retract when something moves at the corner of her eye. At the idea of a threat, her attention is attracted to the... person, standing behind the trees. Everything stills; her hands hold her head securely, though she didn't notice when she'd reached up, her thoughts stop, forgetting who they were entirely. Her focus is on the silhouette standing in the shadows of the shy forest, blending in like a bat in the night.

Slivers of strength returning to her weakened body, she slowly rolls to her front, her eyes never leaving the shape in the darkness. Friend or foe? She wonders silently. They haven't noticed her; thanks to the pouring rain and the loud thunder, certainly. She licks her lips, swallows, and pushes herself on her feet once more. She hasn't done anything to warrant an enemy... Right? And she is in major need of help... They could help her, even if they are a complete stranger.

Help me? Her breath hitches. Why do I need help?

Why, why, why. There are already two answers to that question, she knows. She's a castaway, evident by the fact that she woke up washed ashore half-drowned. The spot she was at still has imprints of her body, though every little nook is slowly filling back up with sand. She also does not know where she is; she's on an island, sure but where? Where did she come from? Maybe she was sailing, and that could explain how she got here but... There is something more to it. Something at the very back of her mind that does not want to be addressed.

She hugs herself once more, either for comfort or warmth, rubbing her arms and flinging drops of sea water off of the bare skin. Shivers run down her spine. Her mouth opens and closes uselessly like a fish, her throat straining to produce any kind of sound. Hope and unease battle inside her and she bites her lip hard enough to taste iron. Should she really approach that stranger? She stumbles onwards after a moment of hesitation. There is no one else around to help her, no map or compass to point her to the right direction, though she wouldn't know where to go even if she had one handy.

That stranger, cloaked in darkness, is her only option.

A few steps forward, she stumbles into the sheltered clearing, where the stranger is standing under little spots of light that filter through the tall branches. She recognises the stature of a young man, dressed in stained rags that hang off his lithe body just like hers. Black tufts of hair, unkempt and dry, stick out in all sorts of directions. His neck is exposed as he hangs his head, shoulders sagging, and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks defeated, more a ghost than a person.

The noise of rain dulls, the wind whispers. Serene silence befalls the clearing, the kind that shouldn't be disturbed; the silence of the dead. Merely taking a step feels like sacrilege.

"H-Hello?" her voice stings, sea salt still burns at the back of her throat. Just speaking feels wrong in the quiet of the clearing. The man flinches at the sound of her voice, broken and raspy as it is and turns to regard her.

That small movement reveals a mound of dirt on the ground as tall as the withered and damaged grass blades that surround it and as long as a tree's shadow. Sticks decorate it, having been put on top of it in a neat pile.

"You're awake," the man quietly observes. Her eyes fall on his own dark ones, and the gaunt features of his face. He looks tired. "I thought you'd be out for a few more days."

I've been out for... How long had she been lying on that beach in this storm? How long had she been asleep? Certainly this man knows –he seems to have been aware that she was unconscious in the bay... and did nothing about it. She doesn't know how to feel about that, so she doesn't linger on the angry thought.

"H-How–", she coughs and spits salt to the ground, "How long was I out for? Why was I– What happened?"

As her tone grows more desperate, the stranger's expression morphs into one of displeasure. His eyes narrow and gaze into her own, seeming to penetrate through the seams of her skin to tear the fabric of her soul. He studies her for a long moment, searching for something that isn't there, until finally, he sighs.

"You don't remember?", he asks, head rolling to the side, tongue dripping with sarcasm. His shoulders tense, waiting for a response.

She pauses, puzzled. "Remember what, exactly?"

The man blinks rapidly, cocks an eyebrow and stares at her as if she'd committed a crime.

"Don't do this, Lynda." he breathes through his nose in exasperation.

Lynda? The name sounds incredibly familiar.

And he continues, uncrossing his arms to show the mound with a dirt-stained hand and earth stuck under his nails. "They killed Tucker and I could barely carry his body to the boats with us. This isn't a time for jokes...", he lowers his hand and looks at the mound himself. She follows his gaze. "Especially in front of his grave. So, stop it."

Oh. Oh, that is a grave. She should have realised sooner. Then again, that sorry mound is only an echo of the memorial it is supposed to represent. As she looks at it, at the final resting place of this person, Tucker, she doesn't feel anything. No sadness, no sorrow.

"Ah, I'm– so sorry for your loss.", she pauses for a moment, and then looks into the man's dark eyes once more. "I, uh... I'm sorry but... Do I know you?"

All colour seems to fade from the man's already pale face. The shadows become harsher, exposing his sunken cheeks and the bags under his eyes. His arms fall to his side as he finally realises –or maybe, accepts is a better word for it– that they're two strangers in a clearing, on an unknown island.

"Wait, you're serious?" is the first thing he asks when he finds his voice, shocked. He takes a step towards her, and instinctively, she takes a step back, her lip tugging up in a sneer. Seeing that, he stops, and his shoulders fall along with his hands that had raised as if to touch her. "You don't remember anything at all?"

His voice is so small, teetering on the brink of breaking, that her heart clenches at the thought of telling him the truth. She remembers nothing of what happened before waking up on the beach. Perhaps that thought should have been more alarming than it is. Perhaps the reality of her situation hasn't settled in yet. She touches her lip with the tips of her fingers, massaging the muscles that had tugged it up for no apparent reason.

Her memories are minimal and her head pulses uncomfortably when she tries to dig further.

"No."

The man's eyes widen but at the same time, they harden. He frowns, his hands close into angry fists. Her eyes don't move from the intense white of his knuckles, and her own hands tense and lock in place where they rest around herself. He sighs and turns towards the discreet grave.

"Your name is Lynda Day and the two of us escaped from some place that was performing magic experiments on us for months," he says, his voice so grave, she doesn't dare open her mouth to interrupt him with her surprise. So that really was my name! She likes it. "We saw some truly horrific things... People died there everyday until now."

And then he glances at her with a look so pointed, threatening, spiteful almost. She hunches in on herself, expecting something more physical to follow but in the end, it's only words.

"But I guess you don't remember any of that. How convenient for you..."

He turns away, breathing out of his nose. His arms cross again, wrinkling the already worn rags he wears.

Cautiously, she takes a step closer to him. The man tenses up as she comes beside him. She stops before the grave. There is no name on it, no tombstone. From what it sounds like, Tucker was lucky to have a grave in the first place. Tucker... Apparently, I knew him. His name means nothing to me now.

"I'm sorry." she tells him.

A sigh. Silently, she questions if they were friends in the past –before her memories were lost– because, even though she stands next to him, he seems as distant as the stars, yet his voice is as familiar as a bird's call in the morning.

"It's not your fault." –and maybe there is a little bit of guilt in the way he says it, in the way he doesn't raise his eyes to meet hers again– "We did everything we could. It's a shame that Tucker couldn't make it but at least, he's had a proper burial."

Holy silence befalls them once more. The rain has decreased, although it's barely noticeable as the droplets are caught by the crowns of the trees, the wind still whistles, reminding them of its presence and lightning strikes but the thunder comes late. She holds her head down, a hundred different emotions running rampant within her mind but what puzzles her is that... While she knew these people, she didn't feel anything. Not for the dead before her, not for the man beside her. Nothing but confusion and a constant plea of why?

The man is the one to break up the quiet this time.

"My name is Morden, by the way, in case you don't...", his voice falters –hitches– momentarily and then he repeats himself. "In case you don't remember it."

"Morden, Tucker." she tests the weight of the names on her tongue. The man, Morden, turns his head slightly to look at her with a glimmer of hope, his expression carefully plain. His hope is turned into rubbish when she shakes her head. "You're right."

He looks away before she can catch a glimpse of his expression. She only hears the click of a tongue, an unintelligible mutter, and sees his stained fingers dig into the tattered sleeve of his shirt. Frustration, anger; there is a mix of those two present, though there is doubtlessly more pain to accompany them. And the cause of it? It's her.

"I'm–"

"Don't say it." he cuts her off, and it's a bitter thing. She doesn't say anything else. "We're free now. You still remember how to use magic, right?"

I can use what?

Well, being able to use magic would explain the 'magic experiments' he mentioned earlier.

"Right." she confirms, in spite of not having felt a sliver of it since waking up nor remembering a time when magic sparked in her veins. She just... She doesn't want to add to the pile of issues; to the frustration and anger and bitterness that hangs around them as a ghostly audience.

"Since we're magic users, we'll make it far in this world; we just need to meet the right people." Morden continues with a nod of his head. "You can take one of the rowboats and go wherever you want."

It sounds like a polite way to send her away. She doesn't confront him about it because it feels wrong to do so at a time like this; especially in front of Tucker's grave, as he said.

"And go where?", she asks instead, looking around the clearing and through the shadows of the trees for a horizon line. "Where are we even?"

"How would I know?" Morden shrugs. "I think this place is an abandoned island. It's in the Bronze Sea, so it's a fair distance away from them. As for where you'll go...", he spares her a cursory look. "I don't know. You're hungry, aren't you?"

She nods timidly. Those coconuts could only offer her empty stomach brief respite.

"Maybe you should head to Redwake, it's a port town east of here. They might have food for you and seeing civilization might bring back some of your memories."

"Do you really think so?"

"...I hope so."

"And what will you do? The weather is pretty bad here." she says, trying to lighten the mood just a little bit. The man grits his teeth for a moment before sparing them the pressure. She looks at him cluelessly. "What?"

"Nothing," he waves off her concern. "I'm going to stay here for a bit. I need to think."

Soon after, they exchange farewells, and Lynda leaves with a parting gift: a dagger as dull as a piece of glass tumbled in the ocean currents that Morden had secured to the waistband of his trousers. He gave it to her with the promise of retrieving it once they met each other again. It's symbolic, definitely not a tool that could be used for its intended purpose; not anymore. It was the only thing he had the time to snatch from their armoury, and it was just sharp enough to cut through one rope.

Lynda is dragging one of the rowboats from the bay to the east side of the island when he breaks the treeline on the east cliffs. The weather has yet to let up: the wind howls, the rain pours and thunder booms loud and clear. Morden watches her struggle to get into the small boat.

It's... disheartening to watch a brave warrior turn into a wet cat within the span of a few hours. He should have noticed sooner; she wasn't herself after their escape. After he deflected that bullet and defended against the oncoming soldiers, she barely responded to anything he shouted at her. That vacant look in her eyes, the mechanical way she rowed after getting through the rough sea... He had blamed it on the stress. And now look at what is left of her.

A blazing lantern snuffed out by the wind. A fire extinguished by the rain. A husk of who once was a good friend and powerful asset. Morden can't fathom how such a bright flame could be reduced to skittish candlelight.

However, there is still heat emitting from the charred embers. That girl full of life he once met is still there, the one who found reason to laugh and smile in the midst of screams and pleas. That girl who would bite the hand that fed her and spit at black and purple robes, even though she knew such behaviour would not go unpunished.

...If only such foolish hopes were to come true.

With a weight pulling his heart into the depths of Tartarus, Morden turns away.