The Lost

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He woke in darkness, in the comforting dark. His throat was raw, and when he tried to speak only a strange croak came out, like some primal bird strangely shaped and grotesque.

“Here,” a voice said, and he felt the metal pipette at his lips, cool and slick. A few droplets of water slid onto his tongue, and he swallowed greedily. “Not too much at first,” the voice said. “Slowly.”

He had dreamed that he opened his eyes to see nothing but blackness behind them, but this time his eyes did open, and for a moment he recoiled. It was just shock — how not? The face that bent over his was concerned, eyes searching his own worriedly. And what a face. Pale gray and seamed with the dark whorls of spiral tattoos, silver hair rising from a widow’s peak above slitted yellow eyes, the other stared down at him, the pipette in his hand.

“There, now,” the other said. “Can you speak?”

He might. He might force something from his raw throat. It came out weak and thready. “Who are you?”

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