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The Void
Free Short Story By Hazel Statham
Feigning sleep, the knight watched her move quietly about the tent. They told him that she was his wife, that her name was Lilly, but he had no memory of her. He watched her small delicate hands that appeared so capable and imagined them moving intimately over his body, but still no memory came. He remembered nothing of the battle and nothing of his life. All was a void.

Someone came to the entrance of the rain-soaked tent to speak to her and they talked in hushed voices. Obviously their words were not for his ears and he strained to comprehend their meaning.

She nodded, clearly understanding and agreeing with them, but to his frustration no one communicated with him. Whenever they were in his presence, they spoke in hushed voices, unwilling to disturb his rest but his mind cried out to be disturbed, to be awakened. How much longer would he be held prisoner in this abyss? If only he could remember her, then all would fall into place.

His sword and shield stood propped against his saddle in the corner, his helmet atop a bale of hay which also served as both seat and table. The coat of arms on helm and shield meant nothing to him. He was obviously a knight of some standing. One who had both property and land. One of considerable consequence. They called him Sir Miles Reynard.

His squire came and stood just inside the entrance, casting a covert look at his master from beneath lowered lashes. Realising that he was awake, he came hesitantly to the side of his straw pallet. “Have you need of me, sir?” he asked quietly, his youthful countenance appearing drawn.

“Nay,” said Miles hoarsely and turned his head away from him. How could he have need of the boy when he could neither sit nor stand? The gash that extended from temple to jaw drove all but a fierce throbbing from his brain. The wound that ran from hip to knee rendered all but the smallest movements too painful to bear.

She came to his side and placed a delicate hand on his brow. “You appear cooler now my love,” she said in a pleasantly low voice. “Will you try some gruel? You will feel so much stronger if you would but take sustenance.”

“To what point?” he asked, his voice cracked with disuse. “To what point should I feel compelled to revive?”

“You are all we have,” she replied, dropping to her knees beside the pallet. “We love you. What will we do if you leave us?”

“I have no memory of we. Why should I fight to remain in a world I know or care naught of?”

She clasped his large, warrior’s hand in both of hers, as if willing him to draw life from their joining. “It is your wounds that speak, they have brought you low, but once you begin to heal, so will your memory return.”

“I wish I could believe you,” he said, in a more rational tone. “For now, I see nothing beyond this pallet and if I do not heal, I will be naught but a cripple – a burden for you to bear.”

“If that is so, then it is a most welcome burden my love,” she whispered, her voice husky with the tears that slid silently from her lovely eyes. “The leg does not suppurate, the wound stays clean. If it remains so there is no need for its removal…”
Copyright Hazel Statham 2008