A shoutout to Thorkell_40k for the new book cover. Go to him if you need some awesome artwork done. At this time, he should still be taking commissions. Dude has some serious skill.
Edit: Thanks to TheKillingAlice for his typography and edit! Check her out when you get a chance. She's doing commissions for free.
Remembering what had happened before I arrived was odd, my night in downtown San Diego replaying in my head, over and over, searching for some clue as to how or why. I hadn’t died, or at least I had no memory of it. There was the vague recollection of doctor visits… MRI scans(?)… and my younger brother hugging me in the hospital lobby…
It seemed that I had gone to Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory. The afterlife was as plausible as reincarnation, that this was my reward or punishment (as in that episode of the Twilight Zone with the gambler) for whatever I had or hadn't done. But there was nothing to convince me of this, no evidence to latch on to, the ‘proof’ demanding a belief just didn’t have.
Was I transferred or copied? Was it through technology or Necromancy? I still didn’t know how I had gotten here, how I was placed inside Thelamein.
Maybe technomancy?
There was also the thought that I was a fabrication, an artificial soul with false memories. I was unfortunate enough to have fallen asleep under this assumption last night, trapped in a nightmare of a bottomless pit…
Euphoria took me when I awoke that foggy morning, thankful that it was a dream, soon replaced by a mental sluggishness. For a while I laid there staring up at the ceiling, lacking energy, sore muscles encouraging laziness.
Not enough sleep, I guess? My time in bed felt right, somewhere between 8 to 9 hours (which is highly unusual given my habitual 7 hours), but without a clock that wasn’t in foreign writing (the one plastered on the smart glass every morning), I knew as much of what my body told me. Perhaps it’s my diet, or maybe something’s off with my testosterone?
Do ‘Loyieda’ even have that much testosterone?
Is it estrogen?
… Nah, it’s definitely test.
With enough motivation, I got myself out from under silk covers, dressing for another morning workout. There would be no bitching and moaning this morning.
“A good morning to you, Thelamein.”
I blinked, a drip of sweat spreading across my eye as it was caught, the salt causing me to flinch. “Ah… It’s Pye-ri-a, right?”
The chestnut haired woman nodded with a warm smile, standing and extending a hand as though offering a dance, unconcerned that I was in sweaty workout clothes. She had been waiting in the same chair as Imra had yesterday, a large bag and sleek metal suitcase beside her on the ground.
She spoke in almost perfect English, a tinge of a strange accent, laden with the something like Italian and Germanic tongues, dressing her speech, “Naberoa mentioned me?”
It appeared she was in her late 30s, embodying a mature, librarian look with sunken cheeks and a smooth yet pointed chin, especially with those glasses. Fit and fairskinned with a tinge of paleness, her shoulders seemed wider than her hips even under a brown coat and green turtle neck. Dark grey, loose pants, added to the professionalism, the materials similar to cotton and linen with buttons like polished obsidian, and with her black high heels she rose higher than my chin. Striking, and almost at odds with her appearance, were the strong, purple hued irises, as though amethyst melted upon them.
Pink, red, gold, cyan, grey, and purple. This eye thing is getting to me, I thought as I grew harder.
Not. Now. You horn dog.
I took her hand, giving a soft grip as we shook. “She didn’t mention you’d come in style.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You don’t look it.” We released our grips.
“Ay lu col m'afr ays, ru, you flirt.”
The sudden switch to Vinlis threw me off.
“I would like us to start over,” she continued, retrieving her suitcase and opening it on the countertop.
Inside was an array of books and a not-iPad along with a pad of bonded paper with several sleek, cylindrical pen-thingies.
She began setting up her device. “Repeat after me: H'afl dryorsa, dayel Pyria.”
It took me a moment. “Half dry-or-sa… day-el Pye-ria.”
“Hmmm… Ay sad fadamsa aepau.”
“I sad fada-em-sa… ay-pow.”
A pad of paper was handed to me, along with a cylindrical pen and another writing utensil (a mechanical pencil?). “What do you think I said?”
“It sounded like ‘good morning’?” I looked down at my attire, wondering if I should excuse myself to get changed.
“And the second part?”
“… You’re wishing me a… good morning?” I shrugged.
Her smile widened. “Close, but not quite.”
“You’re saying my clothes are sweaty.”
“Hah! No, I am not.” She started using the pad, making a few taps and clicks with her fingernails hitting the screen at a rapid pace. “De rsadie aur Thelamein.”
“De riss-a-dee a-oor... I am Thelamein?”
Our back and forth continued for the better part of (about) 15 minutes. It was like a test to see how well I knew the language (which is piss poor).
‘Pye-ria’ (how come I’m butchering her name?) made a satisfying hum, her features that of focus, tapping away at the device, now having seated herself as I had next to her. There was a satisfying scent of something like chamomile which wafted from her, a small distraction in the light of an important lesson.
“Did I pass with flying colors?”
The response was not immediate as she finished. “Hmm? No.”
“Ouch,” I feigned a wince.
“It is… to determine our lessons.”
“Our lessons?”
“English, Angelo, is such a fascinating window to our past, and I wish to learn more about it. I believe your condition will help me with that.”
Nodding and not knowing how to answer that, I asked, “Are we gonna start with flash cards?”
“‘Flash cards’?”
“Flash cards, like for practicing repetition on words, grammar, phrases, ya know.”
The was a resounding tap as she finished with whatever she had been working on, some sort of… Power Point presentation building itself faster than Juane stuffing an edible. “No, we dou… do not do that. It is too ineffective.” Nodding to something on the screen, she then turned to me, gesturing to the pen and pad. “I want you to draw for me.”
I grabbed both, uncapping the pen in a gratifying pop. The paper felt firm, fitting for its bleach-white and smooth texture, of a similar quality as the pen which was made of some sort of metal, the ink (or some other substance) at its tip black as… well, ink.
“Draw me a chair, lpaei die sa nnmas.”
At the click of her suit case, we concluded our impromptu, multi-hour lesson.
And I was still in sweaty clothes.
“Naar bierl eaara ierj'lar xiyaur?”
… She’s asking me if I had fun? Yeah, that’s it. “I did, yes.”
“In Vinlis, please.”
(A/N: End chapter, roll credits!)
“... Ay… wiss-al for… laric” I had fun, yes.
“Xiyie csadie aedie sudunaricu?” ‘Tomorrow again for lessons?’
“Laric… vam-ri-a-noli.” Yes please.
It wasn’t as bad as my inner child seethed it would be. Pyria really seemed to know what she was doing… even if it was a pain in the ass that she insisted us on speaking only Vinlis.
“H'afl!” Instead of taking her belongings and leaving, she stridded over to the main room’s miniature library, browsing the shelving for some book or another, withdrawing one with a hard cover of blue and silver-etched text for its title.
There was a soft rumble in the air and ground, something outside the source of it.
Pyria took notice, looking outside as though noticing something mildly interesting.
“What is it?”
She didn’t answer. Of course…
“... Win-sass aur aa-ras-till?” I asked again.
“It is a ship, one for trading. Sa spsalsa loyayv.”
Walking over, I repeated, “Sa spa-salsa loy-ay-vee.”
Standing behind her, I tried peering through the glass and to the outside, the fog obscuring a long, bulbous and blocky object in the distance, the air disturbed, its movement at the far side of the borough where large buildings stood. So that’s what that wide-open space is for.
“Would it be a space ship?” I asked, sensing how much noise must have been generated.
“Not likely… It is… possible that it is to travel to Old Esteacia or another borough. Rricu xiyier…”
Getting my attention she handed me the book. “Spe su prianol xiyaur.”
Read this? “Laric… ay ra-yeef.” Yes, I will.
Pyria tried to stifle herself but failed, a snort leaving her. “Ay sad cunae, eaara caararl fotae.”
I only understood that she was apologizing, likely for laughing at my slip-up. “Ru cun-ae.” Apology not accepted.
She feigned a frown before smiling, seeing as I had a grin.
With Pyria leaving shortly after, I had a chance to shower and dispose of my gym clothes in a nearby hamper, then chowed down on a meal. The respite was brief.
Per her instructions, I started reading the book, or rather tried. It wasn’t needed that I read, only that I associate the pictures with what was learned, for every odd page had a one. Writing down each word or phrase, in Vinlis, on the pad of paper proved easier with the dictionary provided to me.
It was in the middle of this that the front entrance’s chime rang.
Closing the book and setting aside my notes, brushing strands of white, silky and wavy bangs away, I gazed at where my would-be guests would arrive, my heart skipping with trepidation. This scenario had played out already, twice before in unalike manners, but it was like being a nervous man waiting to greet his date at the gates of a winery.
The doors parted, and on the other side were two women, one of short forest green hair, wavy to the shoulders, and the other a charcoal grey bob cut with eyes colored yellow and brown. I knew then that running would have been a mistake.
“Wie-ffu, win-sass hole egg-ala ris-adi-ec?” I asked, wanting to know their names.