Soon, Aunt Lyra came back holding a folded set of fresh loincloths. They were simple…rough-spun, uneven, dyed with crushed bark, but clean, tidy and smelling faintly of smoke and herbs.
"Here," she said, kneeling beside him. "You still can't move much, so I'll help you."
He gave a small, embarrassed nod. There wasn't much pride left in pretending he could do it himself. His body felt like it belonged to someone else… weak, clumsy, heavy.
Lyra worked quickly, her movements gentle and soft. They looked rustic, sure, but when he slipped them on, they were surprisingly soft against his skin, warm and comfortable. The fabric had been washed in river water and rubbed with oil, the fibers smoothed by use. As I have said before, primitive or not, they were still humans who had common sense and finding comfort is in the genes of humans.
When she was finished, she stepped back and gave him an approving look. "Better. You look like someone alive now."
He managed a faint smile. "Yeah… better."
She slipped an arm around him again and helped him stand, he leaned on her soft and mature body, as she helped him inside. Feeling his arm sandwiched between two soft mounds, he couldn't help thinking, 'it's not too bad being like this.'
Together they crossed the short yard back toward the hut. The air was filled with even more scent of smoke and damp clay. Birds called somewhere in the distance.
Inside, the hut was simple but alive. The main hall was wide, a space meant for both living and sleeping. Dying sunlight entered through small windows like openings in the walls, falling over woven baskets, clay pots, and neatly stacked hides. Four small rooms branched off... a kitchen-corner with stored roots and dried meat, one filled with pottery and tools, a sleeping room for the head of the house, and another smaller one lined with woven mats that must have belonged to children.
She eased him down onto a soft pile of woven grass and fur in the main hall. It wasn't a bed by modern standards, but compared to the ground outside and the inside of his skull an hour ago, it felt like a luxury mattress.
"Lie down, my dear," she said, smoothing the cloth over his legs. "Your strength will return, but not if you fight your breath."
He nodded, sinking into the bedding with a long, shaky exhale. Every muscle complained, but at least they were his muscles now. At least he was alive enough to feel them.
Then she turned to the low table near the wall and pick up a half-shaped lump of clay.
Without ceremony, she began working… shaping wet clay with both hands,
Hands moving slow, steady, sure.
Press, turn, smooth.
Press, turn, smooth.
Sol watched her, lulled by the rhythm, until a flicker of movement in the thatch above her head caught his eye.
It wasn't some spider. His new memories supplied the name instantly: it was a Corpse-Stalker... a small, centipede-like beast with pitch black skin, red stripes and venomous mandibles.
One of the countless small beasts that tribe feared, a terrifying nightmare, as its strike was always a fatal one, without any cure.
And he saw that a few months ago, someone was bitten by it and died a harrowing death, his vein turning black and screaming due to pain, that left a deep impression on his mind.
They tried to kill it, but it had managed to slip away, but they didn't give up and searched for a long but didn't find it again and eventually gave up.
And now to his horror, it was hanging silently from the roof, positioning itself right above Lyra's exposed neck.
Lyra didn't see it. She was too focused on the clay.
He wanted to shout, to lunge, not caring about pretending anymore, but he ultimately didn't, as he was afraid that if he made any movement, it would panic and attack her immediately.
A great amount of panic flared in his mind, he wanted to move, but he couldn't, wanted to shout but couldn't, and his helplessness and anger instantly reached the peak, just then...he felt a sudden eruption of heat in his chest.
He didn't know what it was or what its function was, but he clung to it like a dying man grabbing a rope, and using all the might of his very being, he projected a single, violent command:
DIE!
Instantly he felt something leaving his body and with a:
SPLAT.
The beast didn't just fall. Its body ruptured from the inside out, exploding into a tiny mist of black ichor. Completely obliterating without a trace.
Sol instantly gasped and fell back on fur bed, breathing heavily, his hand shaking violently, 'what was that? I did that...?' he was utterly confused, but remembering the earlier eruption of heat, he knew that it was definitely him, but how or what, he didn't know.
Still, seeing that lyra was safe, a massive sense of relief flooded his body, and his body slumped further.
Suddenly feeling something, lyra spun and looked around the empty room, confused, "what was that?" she said turning towards him.
He quickly calmed his body and nonchalantly said, "what?"
"I just seem to feel something." she said.
"I didn't feel anything, maybe it was air," he said pretending.
Hearing this, she felt that it was reasonable and nodded, turning back to work, unaware that death had hovered inches from her neck.
Sol closed his eyes, feigning sleep, while wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. His heart hammered with a dark thrill.
I did that, he realized, staring at his trembling hand. I didn't touch it. I just wanted it dead, and it died.
He forced his mind to simulate the process again, recalling the surge of heat, the violent, focused command. He strained, trying to reproduce that eruption in his chest, seeking the power he had just glimpsed. Nothing. Only the hollow thrumming of his own adrenaline and the dull ache of his muscles remained. He tried again, projecting raw, vicious intent at a small clay shard near the wall, but it remained whole.
He was just a bruised, weak man, lying on a heap of furs, helpless and shaking. The profound, terrifying power was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him abandoned and confused.
With a long, silent, defeated sigh, he lay back completely. He was too exhausted, too disoriented to chase the phantom power now. His body settled, heavy and unresponsive, into the soft bedding.