'Tap… tap, tap…'
Three swift raps echoed off the wooden walls, stirring a young man from his slumber. He groaned and rolled over, trying to block out the sound and return to sleep.
'Tap, tap… Tap!'
Despite his hopes, the noise grew louder and more persistent. With a scowl, his emerald eyes fluttered open and peered out from beneath a curly amber curtain.
Sunlight streamed through a shuttered window, lighting an unfamiliar room. Dried herbs hung from the thatched roof, while shelves cluttered with jars and vials lined the walls. A long tapestry draped from the far wall, depicting a vast valley, with mossy cliffs and great white clouds.
As he sat up, the rough blanket fell away from his bare chest, revealing a lean body, though thin enough for his ribs to show. A long scar ran across his torso, knotted to the touch.
'Tap, tap…'
The young man glanced outside. A small brown bird perched on the window sill, pecking at the wood. As he moved, it tilted its head and eyed him with a beady gaze. Then it chirped and ruffled its four wings, before hopping off the sill and flying away. Beneath the high sun, its feathers glittered with a brilliant golden hue.
The young man pulled his gaze away, and eyed the rest of the outdoors. A small village bustled beyond his four walls, on the edge of the ocean. Several fishing boats bobbed with the waves, while the men aboard shouted to one another as they cast their nets. The land itself rolled with grassy hills, surrounded by a mountain range covered in pines and oaks.
The young man frowned, and swung his legs over the side of the cot. The cold floor tickled his bare feet, and a light breeze slipped through his tattered trousers. As he stood, his legs gave out, sending him stumbling forward. He threw out his hands, managing to catch the window sill with a thump.
Gripping the wood, he pushed himself upright, and scanned the streets. A series of shouts and laughter followed a group of boys as they darted between the cobblestone houses, chasing after a taller boy.
His thick brown hair bounced as he led them out of the village and over a wooden fence. Despite the warnings of nearby farmers, the boys raced through the long grass, nimbly slipping between the grazing cattle.
Their game of chase led them to a winding river, where the leading boy jumped in, landing with a splash. The others hesitated, before jumping in as well.
As he turned away, the young man furrowed his brow. 'Strange… I don't… I don't know where I am.'
Lost in thought, he jumped when the floorboards creaked behind him. An old man appeared in the doorway, his dark brown eyes widening as he fumbled with a bucket of water and some rags.
"By the Halls of Osyras… You've woken up."
The young man furrowed his brow . "Who- who are you?"
"Oh, yes, right, you must be quite confused." The old man hurried across the room, and set the bucket down on the nightstand. Standing straight, he turned to the young man. " My name is Berrodin, and this is my home. You're in Withro, a small village just west of the kingdom of Galeden. I'm the village healer. Now then, what should I call you?"
"My name is-" The young man trailed off with a frown. His mind was a muddled mess, his memories no more than fragments. "I- I can't remember. Why can't I remember?"
The room started to spin as the young man grabbed the window sill, his breathing growing haggard. Berrodin reached out a steadying hand, holding the young man up.
"Easy now. A bit of memory loss is to be expected in this situation," Berrodin said. He guided the way back to the bed, and helped the young man sit down. "Around a week ago, a few of the fishermen found you floating in the ocean, not far from shore. We believe you may have fallen overboard, or perhaps you were in a shipwreck."
The young man glanced up. "Was there anyone else? Or perhaps a hint as to where I came from?"
Berrodin shook his head. "They searched for a few days, but I'm afraid they didn't find anything else. Oh, wait. There is one other thing."
Berrodin opened one of the nightstand's drawers, and rummaged through the rags and bandages before pulling out a bronze amulet. A great tree adorned the front, and as it spun, the sunlight bounced off a series of words inscribed into the back.
'May the Arbor Sanctum never fall.'
As the words rang through his head, a bit of the fog clouding his mind cleared. "Cyrus…"
"What's that now?" Berrodin asked, handing him the amulet.
"My name is Cyrus," Cyrus said. He ran his thumb over the inscription on the back of the amulet, before flipping it over. The tree stood tall on the front, with a knotted trunk, and long branches, which stretched around the sides.
"Is that so? Well, if you already remember your name, then I'm certain the rest should return shortly," Berrodin said.
"I hope you're right…" Cyrus said. He gestured towards the inscription on the back. "Do you know what this place is?"
Berrodin furrowed his brow. "I'm not certain what you mean. If those scribbles mean something, it's not in a language I've ever seen before."
Cyrus frowned, and turned the amulet around. The inscription was chiseled into the amulet in the shape of knotted roots, all of which were twisted and intertwined. As he studied it, Berrodin grabbed a small journal from a shelf, and handed it to him.
"Here, this is our written language."
The journal contained a list of herbs, and their properties, but the way it was written resembled lines and dots, without any curves. Cyrus flipped through the worn yellow pages, before glancing back at the amulet.
"That's odd. I can read both of them."
Berrodin pursed his lips. "Interesting. If you can figure out where that language comes from, then it might help you remember where you came from."
"Is there anyone in the village who might be able to help me?"
Berrodin shook his head. "I'm afraid not. We once had a written fellow living here, but he passed away a few years back. If you really want to know more, then you should head to Galeden. You'll have better luck asking one of the scholars there."
"I'll keep that in mind," Cyrus said. He hooked the amulet around his neck, shivering as the cool metal rested against the chest. "How far is the kingdom?"
"Three and a half days by foot. Two by wagon," Berrodin said. He scratched his chin. "If you feel you've recovered enough by tomorrow morning, I'll be heading there myself. I'm late in picking up my next order of herbs, and the merchants there aren't the type to hold onto sellable goods."
"Other than a bit of tiredness, I feel fine," Cyrus said, shifting on the cot. "Since I have no other reason to remain here, I suppose I'll take you up on your offer."
"Great. We can talk more about it later, over supper. For now, why don't you rest a bit, and try to gather your thoughts," Berrodin said. He gestured towards an old oak wardrobe. "If you wish to change, you'll find some clothes in there that should fit. They belonged to my son."
"He won't mind?" Cyrus asked.
"Honestly, I doubt he remembers they're here," Berrodin said. He made his way to the door. "Feel free to take what you want."
With that, the old man slipped out, shutting the door behind him. As his footsteps faded, Cyrus popped open the wardrobe. A layer of dust rested on the stacks of tunics and trousers inside. After brushing them clean, Cyrus sifted through the clothes until he settled on a dark grey tunic and black trousers.
The straw cot crinkled as he sat back down. Outside, a dark cover of clouds flowed down from the mountains, the rumble of thunder echoing off the peaks.
'It looks like quite the storm is approaching,' Cyrus thought. He rubbed the amulet, feeling a sense of calm from the cool metal.
…
A light patter of rain tapped against the window as evening came to pass. Cyrus watched the drops run down the glass, before puddling together on the sill.
He pulled his gaze away as Berrodin knocked on his door, before pushing it open.
"It's growing late, and I was thinking about heading to the tavern for supper. Would you care to join me?"
"A bit of food would be nice," Cyrus said. As he climbed to his feet, Berrodin studied him.
"The clothes look good on you. I'm glad they fit. Though you'll need a cloak. One moment," Berrodin said. He disappeared down the hall, before returning with a dark green cloak made from wool.
"Here. This one should work."
Cyrus slipped the cloak over his shoulders, and fastened it with a miniature bronze hammer.
"This is quite nice," Cyrus said, studying the clasp.
Berrodin smiled, his eyes growing distant. "It was a gift from my late wife, long ago. She often bought me things like this."
The old man cleared his throat. "But enough about that. It's getting late, and the tavern is sure to be crowded. Shall we head out?"