Ballad Of The Forgotten: Chapter 3: Part 2:

....contd

His question broke her constant stream of thoughts, and she looked down for a while.

“I am the Storyteller.”

And that was it.

Before long, the pain subsided enough for him to sit up and do simple things. His thigh throbbed now and then, but it wasn't as nauseating as before. She told him to do several agonizing exercises for his knee and ankles.

After a month or so, when he told her that he could perform those exercises without feeling like he'd faint, she made a pair of crutches for him. It took her a good part of a day and he watched the whole process.

She brought two bundles of scrapped broken wood, carrying them under one arm and fetching them twice. She sat on a tool and untied the bundle, separating the long, middle, and smaller parts. Then taking out her tools, she laid them on the ground before her and started shaving the longer and middle parts. She used a pumice stone, and soon enough, her arms were speckled with sawdust.

She chipped at the pieces, creating smaller shapes, and putting them aside. He watched as her eyes narrowed and widened alternatively; focused as she hammered and chiselled her way gently through the wood, an ever-present toc-toc-toc in the air. Having never seen someone craft before, he was fascinated, absorbed in the slow, sure movements of her arms and the emerging beauty of the wood and the simplistic designs. He was alarmed when she took the smallest pieces and turned them into little cogs and nails.

After she was done carving, she roasted the pieces and set them aside to cool for a little bit, before anointing them with hemp oil. He breathed in the nuttiness, his toes curling as he stretched, inhaling the smell as much as he could. When she saw him, she smiled and his toes jerked as he averted his eyes. A small heat glowered up in his chest. It was the first time he had seen her smile.

When the pieces were done, she brought them in front of him. He looked at them, studying them as he'd never done before.

The wood was fine-grained and smooth, the lines almost parallel, with little squiggles of circles at certain spots. It was cool and velvety to touch. For the armrests and the hand grips, she had padded the places with cloth, arranging them in distinct patterns. He couldn't help but stroke the surface.

"And now we get you up." She said suddenly.

He looked at her, suddenly scared at the prospect of getting up and walking again. She peered into his eyes, reading the hesitancy in them, and said simply,

"You get up or I leave you behind." And looking at her, he did not doubt that she would. So he sat up as upright as he could.

It was a painstaking process for him. Whatever exercises he had done (and felt proud of completing) were woefully inadequate as his knee refused to bend beyond a certain degree. She saw the pain he was in and placed her hand on his knee, massaging the joint. He felt his muscles quiver to the motions of her hands, hungry for the soft, constant touches. His neck relaxed.

And then she bent his knee.

He fell back on the bed, the tears leaving his eyes before his head hit the hard cushion. He was almost blind, angry at how helpless he felt. He wanted to yell at her, but the words simply eluded him as the pain pulsed from behind his knee. She started massaging his knee again.

After a while, she leaned over him. His eyes were open, but it took him a few seconds to focus and glare at her. More tears left his eyes as he felt her hands wipe at his eyes. He was sure his face was completely blank.

"It will pass", she said, wiping his eyes, soothing him again and again, "it will pass." The anger was gone as he felt her fingers on his face. Her hair was dangling over him and he wrapped his fingers in a strand, feeling the texture, smooth from the scalp, roughening in the ends. She watched him calmly.

And her eyes widened when he put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her.

It was his lips on hers, simple and chaste. But her lashes fluttered frantically on his cheek and he released her, terrified of what he'd done.

"Forgive me," he whispered as she looked at him, eyes still widened. For a moment he felt like disappearing into thin air, the shame settling in the centre of his torso, chilling him. His hands clutched at the mattress, spasming as the shame crushed him, trying not to remember the ease at which his hand covered her head. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her.

"Forgive me," he choked.

Silence. He couldn't open his eyes, and he couldn't bear the lack of reaction from her. His skin felt like it was on the ice.

And then he felt her lie on him, her hair tickling his nose.

"I understand." She said quietly.

Slowly, painfully, his arms rose to feel her arms, feeling their shape, the ridges of the scars on them. And then they closed over her form, as he held her for dear life.

The pain in his knee was gone, but he felt a gnawing need in him, unable to put it into words. He was distressed, but the weight of her on him calmed him, as he tried to think clearly. He breathed in and out, smelling the slight sweat on her, and her unwashed hair. His fists were balled as he held on to her.

When he calmed, he put his arms away on his sides, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. She sat up, waiting for him to say something, but suddenly, he couldn't speak. So she motioned him to get up. He did so limply and didn't complain as she bent his knee in varying degrees, feeling the pain, but not reacting.

Watching him, she hunched in front of him. He could feel her gaze burning into his skin, but he didn't care, almost lightheaded at the lack of concern he was suddenly feeling for himself. He doubted he'd care even if a boulder fell on him at that very moment.

The next thing he knew she had pressed her lips to his.

And it was his turn to widen his eyes. He felt incredulous as the senses knocked on him, his skin wincing where her hands held on to his face. He forgot to breathe, unable to believe what was going on.

She released him. Still calm and focused, she looked at him evenly.

"And now we are even."

He felt his heart thud. "Forgive me.", he whispered again.

....contd