AL001
Oct 07, 2008#21
He helps you in, and that is the last thing you remember...
You awake to the bright summer morning streaming in through windows looking out at treetops with singing birds. The sun seems so bright, you wish you had sunglasses. The sun isn't the only thing that hurts. You can't help but wonder if anyone got the information on those twelve men who must have beaten you up. You blink, each eyelid like a club over the soft orbs beneath. Maybe it was more than 12.
You are in the upper rooms, your room across and down the hall from your fathers. You try to sit up, but your head hurts too much to do so. Listening to the protests of the aches and pains, you lay back trying to take in the moments. You feel exhausted as if you haven't slept at all.
You turn your head away from the window, taking in the familiar pinks of the flowers painted on the high ceilings. The familiar carving of your name in a rafter from one of the only times Julian had taken you out of the Savannah. The memory is still a cherished one, despite the beating you had taken for recklessly endangering yourself with the climb, and damaging his cabin.
Your eyes settle on a form slumped forward in a chair. The long straight hair, spilling forward over the hand on his forehead makes him look like a mop, dishheveled. The thought of him falling forward makes you want to giggle, but the ache in your head keeps it at no more than a thought.
A large grey head moves up to look at you from the mans feet. The deep brown eyes focus on you, and it yawns showing the large teeth that could as eaily chew through wood and light steel, as flesh. As if the dogs eyes were his own, the man stirs, and brushing his hair back, you can see the deep red palm print on his forehead from where he was sleeping. His eyes focus on yours, and energy rushes into him.
"Aria!" He bursts out of the chair, and is to your side in a flash, the dog barely getting out of his way. He kneels down by your bedside, the strong hands laying gently against your face, in a reflection of the way his thick black hair lays over the stark white of his shirt.
"My daughter. Where have you been?" His voice is gentle, and holds none of the gruffness with which he addresses those who serve him.