[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Flights of Fancy Edition

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 He was home, and that was how Hilary knew he was dreaming. 
 
 It was autumn when, in fact, he knew it to be spring. The trees lining the road towards the cul-de-sac had just begun to enter their most brilliant stage, the bright scarlet reds and copper orange leaves still thick on the branches of maple and oak. Mr. Vereson, twenty years dead, was spreading one last layer of mulch on his flower beds. Hilary had known his son, a few years younger than him. Jacob had gone to CMU to study finance if he recalled right. A neighbor's dog was barking as it always did. Whether from a squirrel outside its window or just a child going down the street to fetch the mail it did n't matter. That damn dog was always howling. 
 
 He glanced down at himself, his tired leathers and thread-bare cloak replaced with clean jeans and a dark green t-shirt two decades out of date. He brushed a thumb, uncallused and unscarred, across his chin to discover it clean shaven. Flint's hair was cut short and neatly combed, as if he'd just came from the barber on a half-mile downtown. 
 
 He walked more out of curiosity than desire, his tennis shoes scraping against the grey sidewalk. Jessie Hancock waved at Hilary from an upstairs window and he returned it. The blonde haired girl was his age. And cute. 
 
 Six doors down and he came to his. 
 
 His house was the only with a railed porch, the faded white paint peeling in places. The concrete driveway was cracked and uneven, the heavy slabs broken by too many freezes and thaws. The path to the porch was similarly weather beaten, the lone stone step worn down by hundreds of thousands of comings and goings. The one-two step was as natural to him as breathing. 
 
 The door handle was in a condition akin to the rest of the house, the brass chipped and dull with use. The kickplate was covered with scuffs and dents from many an errant boot. He heard the sounds of meat being fried, pots of water boiling over the stove and the range fan on high. His mother was cooking. Flint smiled and reached for the door.... 
 
 `` Welcome back to the land of the living.'' 
 
 Hilary Flint blinked at the words, a low and painful ache working its way through his limbs and into his head. Every joint seemed stiff and sore, his muscles weak and tired. The scar earned from a Salamander's bayonet felt as if it were threatening to open up, though it had been almost ten years since that Grenadier had stabbed him in the thigh. Flint had pressed his pistol against the Salamander's forehead and fired, splashing himself with brains and bits of bone. 
 
 `` Pardon?'' he croaked. His voice felt like ash in his mouth. 
 
 `` You were out for quite some time. A couple more days and I'd have written you off as a lost cause.'' The voice was feminine, and sweet like summer strawberries.... 
 
 `` Where- where is she?'' 
 
 `` The Elf? In my cabin working on mending that cloak of yours. Said it was important to you. Here, stop. Stop! You're making a mess of it. Stop, you battered fool or you'll rip the stitches.'' 
 
 She spoke in the trade-tongue, that ever-evolving creole which had emerged in the years after the Arrival. Using primarily Veluvian Elvish vocabulary with a fair helping of English loanwords, it dispensed with the former language's elaborate inflections and tenses to make a more readily accessible and understandable tongue. 
 
 Hilary Flint obeyed her instructions and allowed himself to be settled down against the blanket, a wrapped coat tucked underneath his head. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright April light and saw her. 
 
 `` You're a Naiad,'' Flint murmured. She smiled and clapped her hands half-mockingly. 
 
 `` *Well, well, well... * My, are n't you the clever one? But yes, I am. This stretch of river is my home and you my guest. It is not often I have visitors, and even rarer that they come so... rugged.'' 
 
 `` I'm flattered to be sure,'' replied Flint. `` But I do n't now your name, Miss...'' 
 
 `` Oh, my name is too long for your ears and your tongue to clumsy to pronounce it properly. You, however, may call me Daphne.'' She raised an earthenware cup to his lips and Flint drank at it greedily, suddenly aware of just how thirsty he was. `` You're very fortunate, you know that? That musket ball must've been almost spent by the time it struck you in the head. Gave you a hideous *goose egg* but did n't cause any serious internal swelling. Stitched up your cuts: most of them minor, a few moderate. There's willow bark in that water, that's why it's so bitter. Here, drink.'' 
 
 A tiny drop slipped down the corner of Flint's mouth as he swallow. `` Thank you. Me and Faith, we do n't have much to offer, but if there's anything we can do to repay you-'' A slim but strong hand pressed him back down onto the blanket. 
 
 `` You need to rest. And the girl needs to know her protector is safe. Sleep. I'll be back as soon as I tell Faealena the good news.'' She smiled. `` As for payment, I can think of a few things a... man of your talents can provide. But for now, sleep and regain your strength. `` 
 
 Flint blinked once, twice and had fallen asleep before he counted the third.
