Page 65 of Taken to Lemora
A soft grunt, and then silence.
“Gorman? Is that you?”
I look up from the fabric swatches I brought into my chambers to work on — a good distraction from worrying about the Egama and the human that may or may not be with them.
One fabric swatch is for a new dress for myself. Three are for similar dresses I’ve been asked to make by Asgid workers. They’re smaller in stature than the Lemoran and often dress fully covered, even the males, and have flocked to me for the designs I’ve been making for myself since they’re made from durable wego fabric, wick watersomewhatand, more importantly, dry quickly in the ever-present rain.
I’m thinking of customizing a couple styles to fit the Rekkaru, too, but I notice that they tend towards brighter fabrics. Perhaps, I could even hand dye some patterns. The Walrey dyes came out beautifully. I wonder what Lyla would think. I could even dip them in wax to create stark shapes…
My mind is racing and I smile as I look up as I hear another soft moan and then a stranger sound, like water dripping. “Gorman, you don’t have to babysit me, you know. I know that there’s a lot to prepare with new guests…Oh. Hello.”
I perform the Lemoran greeting at the male who walks through the two-story high doors into my chambers. I’d left them open for Gorman, but this is definitely not Gorman. In fact, it isn’t anyone I’ve seen before here on Lemora. He isn’t even aspeciesI’ve seen before. I’m not sure, he’s even flesh and blood, there’s so much metal covering him. And the first thought that hits me, hits hard.
“Who did this to you?” I whisper, not having meant to say the words aloud.
His one eye widens in surprise and I feel terror pierce me down to my toes. And then the moment passes when he takes a step forward.
The male stands tall, just taller than Raingar if you removed his horns and he has on what has to be the strangest garment I’ve ever seen. Black, it covers his chest from his right shoulder to his left hip. It molds to fit his body so tightly, I can see the definition of his many muscles through the thin, matte fabric.
His right arm is covered by the same fabric that coats his chest, but his left arm, pectoral, and some of his abdomen is concealed by metal. It sparkles bright, looking like freshly minted stalyx. Only…it isn’t covering him, is it? It looks like itishim. The way his arm bends at the elbow…I can see metallic joints connecting the upper arm to the lower. A similar metal vein shoots up the left side of his neck.
The left side of his face is also partially constructed of metal. He has a metal plate contoured to where a cheek would be, but above that, there’s no eye, there’s just a flat dark grey sheen. It moves freakily, like black sand is shifting beneath it, forming patterns and swirls.
That metal brow curves over his forehead, over his crown, to form the bulk of his skull on the left side. On the right side, however, above his forehead, straight, white hair grows. It cascades over his right shoulder, halfway down his back, the tips touching the tops of his pants, which are covered in the same black fabric. He wears flexible black boots that mold to the shape of his large, flat feet.
And everywhere that isn’t metal? Well, it’s red. His skin is red. Drakesh colors, like mine, they’re familiar to me. He even has a red tail. It lazes behind him, bored, its coated tip hovering just above the ground. He looks like he was cut down the middle and everything on his left side that was once red skin and flesh and bone beneath it was swapped out for metallic parts.
Who did this to him? Did it hurt? Was he injured? Did these modifications save his life? What did he look like before?
A daring thought crosses my mind as something powerful shifts in my heart.I know him. I know this male.“Do I know you?” I whisper, throat and lips suddenly dry. I’m backing away from him without knowing why. “You seem familiar to me.”
He doesn’t speak. He just takes another step into the room. In his eyes — in hisoneeye that looks so strangely similar to mine, a dark brown ring surrounding a black dot floating in a white pool — there is no recognition. There is nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, even as I stumble back with one hand raised. My body knows he is a predator even if everything else about him pulls me forward, wanting to comfort this male I know from another life. “I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling somehow like I failed him.
I don’t know why, but I am sorry. Deeply. From the bottom of my soul.
All the goodness of Lemora can’t compete with the blind indifference of his gait. Like nothing matters to him. Like he is nothing. He sees nothing. Like he hardly even exists.
His full, vermillion lips don’t so much as twitch. They don’t open. His expression is blank as he carries himself silently across the room, stopping directly in front of me. He raises his metallic arm in front of my face and I don’t know any better, so I don’t hold my breath. I just breathe in the light, citrusy scent. Then I fall into the void of his gaze where there is no light, where there is no happiness, where there is nothing at all. Not even grief or pain or longing.
I wake up what feels like a moment later, but I know it hasn’t been, because my environment is entirely changed. Everything that was the earthy, nurturing taste and feel of Lemora’s soil and the strength and stony love that was Raingar’s keep has been stripped away. What’s left is so bare it makes my bones ache.
I can feel the lovelessness of this place radiating through my conscious mind. It doesn’t feel nice and neither does my skull. It’s pounding so hard I can barely breathe. Was that citrus scent a gas? A poison? It must have been…
“At least I’m still alive,” I mutter to myself, caught by the realization that I haven’t spoken to myself in a long time.
On Lemora, I always have someone to talk to.
But I’m not on Lemora anymore, am I?
I cough into the glassy, glossy white floor. It feels oily to the touch even though nothing comes off on my hands, and shines with all the bright lights reflecting off of it. Everything is so white it hurts. Everything is so bright and soulless, including the male who sits at the small stool in front of what I must assume are controls but that don’t resemble anything I’ve seen before in my life.
A large table forms a circle around him that’s three-quarters complete. It’s tilted towards him and, from where I lay on my belly, it’s possible to see only a mercurial surface that undulates in waves, cresting and arching beneath his deft touch. It’s like the liquid sand that lives in his left eye. It’s like he’s playing an instrument except there is no music. There is no sound at all. It’s terrible. I haven’t been in silence like this since I was property of Tyto and Igmora.
But I’m not that female anymore.
I am miriga and this male has no right to cage me.
