HIS THOUGHTS WERE very far from what his watching children might imagine, for he was far away, up among rolling hills green with grass and canopied by the bluest sky imaginable.
He was young again, in his teens, a free spirit gulping in the fresh air of a happy land. He could run and jump and dance. He could feel no pain, only the emotions that accompanied joyful memories of youth and innocence and friendship.
And that glorious meeting among the fields with Shaida Vonsen, she of the lustrous black locks, winsome figure and mischievous laugh that more resembled the teasings of a woodland sprite than the daughter of a shopkeeper over in Crusty Lane.
How they ran, swishing through the grass, tumbling down slopes and leaping streams before turning their attentions to the shadowy intimacy of the pinewoods on the higher slopes. The teasings became more silent then, evolving into looks and gestures and beckonings.
They married of course and Sallmer's memories rushed on to that day when they got their first flat over a bakery. The smell of bread was a precious memory to Shaida, considering where she came from, and Sallmer determined on a vocation among fresh dough. With the coming of children, how soon, how quickly, the dynamics changed and they moved away to find a bigger place and better-paid work.
The only option was the unpleasant world of metal-smelting and a rambling shack in the Metalloid District.
No.
Sallmer Weet's memories did not want to go there. The sharp tang of poisons in the air, the sharp tongue of embittered dreams and the burden of mouths to feed until they were old enough to fend for themselves, frittered away whatever aspirations Sallmer had for his family.
That was when the pain really began.
It drove everyone away. It ended sleep and destroyed appetites so that only memories remained.
How lovely it was to recall running through the grassy fields beneath the bluest sky imaginable. It was the only time Sallmer could remember when he was not in pain, any pain. Physical hurt could not touch him, but the surge of emotions that he thought of as love did not touch him either, for there was no one. The fields were empty. Just the sweeping vista of green grass, misty hills and a dark line on the high horizon where the springs began.
Their waters tasted tangy, metallic, yet he could not help but imbibe from them. Again and again. It was the only pure memory he had left now.
He was at peace, and that was all that mattered.