The days passed laggardly, my clumsy actions embarrassing and frustrating. Yet, I found improvement where I could. Navigating a tray of food became simple- as long as silverware was placed in the same spot, and the glass was heavy enough to receive a searching touch. The slight independence of eating without help brought me more solace than I ever thought something so little would.
And more so, he was right. My diet was changed- the mere smell of meat caused my nose to scrunch. Worried I would grow tired and blanded by eating salads and steamed vegetables, I became more grateful that the taste had become more delicious since... changing. Noticing the changes of my body myself led merit to his words of 'alchemy' and 'supernatural', though I was still wary of the second term. The calming nature of his voice and actions did well at deflecting my feelings of confusion and helplessness. Each day he taught me something to regain my independence, and I felt my life slowly falling back into my own hands.
"You're wrapping the bandage wrong..." He moved my hand into a different direction and re-adjusted the tension I had been putting on the straps. I nodded and tried again, focusing on the placement and directions, memorizing where they laid across my skin like they were pieces to a puzzle which had one exact place. After a few tries, it became habitual. If he provided the ointment, I could apply and bandage myself, completely avoiding the fear of being seen. Despite all my mental nurturing, the fear of being seen steadily rose until it was something in the very air which clutched to my skin like dew. Before, I was self-conscious as the average woman, but now- not being able to see myself; the needle-biting wounds, the inconsistent texture of my own skin, the frequent gashes from moving or reaching too far. It pained me to feel them, and I couldn't imagine at all what they would look like. Did I appear unsettling? Perhaps that was the root of it- I couldn't imagine what I looked like, and that mystery felt threatening.
Releasing a drowsy sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cool to the touch. Even the balls and soles of my feet were bandaged, and the wrappings continuing up my knees. Each morning, re-wrapping my bandages felt like putting on a second skin. With a timid hand leaning on the nightstand, I choked down a pill of worry as I rose to my feet, gritting my teeth.
Needle-like, sharp, flaming- the pain ripped through each muscle and sizzled with each movement, but I had the feeling it wouldn't be going away anytime soon. Everyday became a practice of desensitizing myself to the pain, the tears slowly flowing less and less, though my heart became more and more mute. I suppose maybe that was to be suspected. Personality; when you can no longer function as the same person, the same being as you once were, it would be natural for even those false-concrete things to change. My chest became tight, the limits of my existence coiling around me day by day.
I shook my head and poked my cheek gently. There are some good things- small traits I grew more prideful of. My hearing, my spatial awareness- though I could not see, memorizing the number of steps or the height and width of different objects such as furniture or navigating unfamiliar rooms came relatively easily. Though I was hesitant to attribute it to the changes of my body, my mind felt more sharp and clear, a serene refinement bringing me peace even when my feeble ego floundered upon new terrain. For another skill I'd contribute to the change, came a sense of living beings. The motions of Lord Fomlé around the house, the cook in the kitchen, the few maids. They swam across the blackness of my sight like foggy apparitions of koi fish, circling beneath my feet down the stairs, flitting across the manor like receding fireflies.
It was easy to attribute that strange sense as non-human, and as the weeks passed, I completely believed in his words. 'Supernatural'. The word still sent shivers against my spine, but it was accepted like one accepts the foreign customs of a far off land- the motivations, the meanings, the purposes- the aura of the phrase alive instead of dead. Somehow, after accepting that phrase, things felt like they fell into place within my bones and veins.
At the creaking of the stairs, the faint glow of Lord Fomlé coming towards my room invited a faint smile to my face.
"Good afternoon, I brought you some clothes I had made and a cane. I may be old, but even I notice certain things. I think you will find them to your liking."
Those words, caring and sincere, that make all this so much easier to submit to. I sat back on the bed and tenderly felt the cloth of the clothes he placed in my hands.
"This is a cloak with a heavy hood and covering which rises up the face and covers up to the bridge of your nose. Only your eyes are visible, I thought that might make you more comfortable. One is a shawl, while one has loose sleeves which stop at the elbows."
Damn, he does notice more things than I would have guessed. Was I that obvious?
A nod signaled him to continue.
"I got you basic, simple tops to go under the cloaks, and baggy pants which can be tightened at the lower half of the shin for easier movement. As for shoes, I found a soft leather which laces up your legs, so you can tighten or loosen it as you please. The soles are stiffer and more flexible in certain places, designed to match so you can easier sense where you are and to comfort the pain. As for the-"
I couldn't help but hug him tightly, my ears gushing and cheeks buzzing. The sense of knowing where he was swelled within me, my hands pressing into the creases of his jacket, the textile clean cut. It's been so long since someone has been so kind to me, and it shook me to my core after so many years of abandonment and distain. I wish I was your daughter, Lord Fomlé. What kind of life would I have lived then?
"I'm glad you like them. To be honest, I'm doing all of this out of selfish reasons." The hum of his words vibrating within his chest whisked across my front as I let him go and sat back down on the bed.
"As for the cane..." The material was some strange mixture of metal and wood, and it was heavier than I expected. I tapped it upon the floor a few times, the deep thuds bouncing loosely around the room, my ears aching dully. What is this?
"This cane is heavy to emit easy-to-pick up low frequency sounds. Something tells me your hearing is, and will be, impressive."
Tracing the smooth cane, I graced over the strap at the top and the rounded bottom. I recognized it immediately, but I paused as I felt a small ridge which circled the cane.
"If you give the cane a good jerk, it slides out to become a sort of staff. Walking around may be tiring, so leaning on a staff will be a good relief."
The elated feeling chatted loudly behind my eyes, my hands thankfully holding the cane in my lap, looking forward to being one step closer to my new independence. I tenderly set the clothes on the nightstand and set the boots on the ground, leaving the cane against the wall. With a slightly animated rub on my forehead, Lord Fomlé chuckled softly.
"I'll leave you to rest then." His steps entered the doorway before he paused for a brief moment.
"The reason I am so selfish is because you remind me of my son..."
I could hear the sound of his tongue hitting the top of his mouth as he sadly sealed his lips before closing the door behind him. The sentiment lingered in the air for the moment and was echoed by the entire room; his son's room. I wondered what happened to him, the son of an alchemist, but I knew that it wasn't something heartwarming.
Sleeping on the bed that night felt more strange than the night before. I had allowed myself to call this my room, but it was his room. In a strange way, I felt connected to him- perhaps...
A shake of the head and poke of the cheek- my tired limbs gratefully sank into the cushion of the mattress and chill, softness of the sheets.
A faint rustling- and quick paced steps; I felt for a moment as if something strange was happening- as if reality had abruptly shifted.
"How is she?"
Hearing that voice- that steel-like, apathetic voice- my body suddenly imploded. A feral panic rising up my throat, I felt something in me pleading for me to run away.
"It's been three days since the incident, Marchioness. She'll need-"
"Nonsense, let me in."
Taking in a gasp for air as if I had forgotten how to breathe, my nose caught the smell of dust and wilting roses, and as if forgetting all that had occurred to me at Lord Fomlé's, I tried to open my eyes.
With it, a sharp stabbing ebbed against my skull and a mangled groan tried to make itself in my throat. Yet, even in the pain, I couldn't make a single sound. Perhaps what was more agonizing was hearing the footsteps of the Marchioness grow closer and closer yet never arrive- my eyes flitting through the dark, nothingness of my vision with the desperation of a cornered beast.
"If you were more selfish, none of us would have died- did you really think that you could live a happy life after what you did?"
At those words, I had realized this was all a nightmare and not reality- after all, my little brother never had such an extensive vocabulary; and though it embittered me to say this- the memory of his voice wasn't so clear cut as the one which spoke to me now. Just as I had slowly forgotten the details of my mother's face or the habits of my father at the dinner table; the apparitions of my family where hazy and obscure except for random bouts of clearness.
"It's not my fault." I couldn't say it, but I could feel the will of my soul retorting as it always did- ever so desperate to be innocent.
"When will you stop lying to yourself?" Now, it was Lord Fomlé's voice- cool and collected as if he knew it as simple as day. Under the torture of my own mind, I couldn't help but be exhausted; and selfishly, I yearned to be awake so that all of this could stop. Please, just let it stop.
"Eleanor, I can't even tell what the truth is anymore. Tsk-" Even without my sight, I could see the perfect image of my father scolding me- dissatisfied.
"If you hadn't tried to save me," My brother resounded, "None of us would have died. How is it not your fault?"
He's right, that voice within me said once- twice; until it was chanting those words like a divine hymn, endlessly provoking my damnation into existence. Piling their voices one atop the other, it was the final phrase which finally released me back to reality that somehow made me feel more lifeless and empty than I had ever felt before.
"You're a monster, Eleanor Estette."
Oh, ain't it true?