In The White [ Eithne ]
The closer and closer to Hatharida they came, the heavier and heavier the snow became. As she had squinted against the wind, Vera felt as if riding had also become a sort of digging. The rhythmic walk of the horse, the painful gulps of air as the wind stung the back of her throat, the burn of muscles leaning against the elements, the striving to either have rest or to deliver rest... burials always clung to her thoughts. The opening of the earth. The cold faces of the dead. She remembered all of the eyes she'd covered in soil. Their stares cropped up when she was awake, when she was asleep, when she was mending an arm that belonged to a living, breathing being. She even remembered the ghosts of the missing, ones likely dead that she could not find. How many villages had she visited like that one? How many more would she walk? In the blizzard shoving itself upon them all, Vera's soul felt the thin unforgiving fingers of Amasa. Graves did not save spirits. How could they? How could something like soil save the substance of a life? Burials only existed as a comfort to the living.
Vera wondered, then, if she shared her memories with the Riders around her...would they understand? She met Raed's eyes as they pitched a tent in the cursed weather. He barely held her gaze for a second before he looked away. As if it were a part of her strange talents, Vera knew the answer before she asked the question. Even in the white, she was on her own.
Glad to take camp, to clear the ground and pitch tents in the harsh wind, Vera blew out a weighted breath and tossed blankets into a tent. It was a relief to have some warmth before diving into another haunted forest. She had not slept well in days, a fact she concealed from everyone except for Elden. The old sorcerer had the eye of a hawk. She did not care if he knew she was not rested. Vera was certain Hatharida was plagued with its own ghosts and spirits, on top of whatever evils brought to it from the Free Cities. Elden had grown more and more agitated the closer they came to the forest. "I'm sensitive to these things. The illness of the trees, the old frayed magic, the dead things beneath what grows in the soil. Sensitive," he said. "Ignore me."
Vera tried, but in the face of Hatharida, the flaws of the group were becoming more pronounced. She could not ignore Elden's fears any more than she could ignore Hasna's worry, Raed's distrust or Eithne's temporary insanity. If they were all so broken after just one burned village, what would happen when they saw the rest? There must have been more. There was always more twisted deaths when she dealt with grey cloaks. Eragos had dismissed her question of where the other Grey Riders were, but Vera knew in the pit of her stomach that Dragon Knights or not, they would be together in Hatharida. They were not Dragon Knights. Not now. If they were, in their hearts, they would not be Grey Riders simultaneously. These men were a part of something more than themselves or the order that cast them out. And whatever their cause was, her House was directly responsible and in command.
This group would not survive the cursed forest divided as it was. Vera saw that truth like a terrible blemish on the horizon. If the elements did not prey on the White Riders, the Grey Riders would. Vera could not take leadership now. It was too late and too unwelcome. Vera picked up a kettle warmed by the campfire that Birloch had started. The ex-thief had worked hard to make tea that no one touched. She poured some into an old mug and let the steam warm her skin for a moment. She would work unseen. Uncredited and likely disliked for her trouble. A damned hummingbird. The Captain was right. This was what she did best.
Vera walked through the camp with light feet, managing to walk on top of the snow where most other riders were trudging through it. The trick was one she had perfected over the years. It made it significantly easier to surprise an opponent, or sneak up on an unsuspecting and unwilling ally. Eithne was sitting on a frozen log just outside of the camp, smoking furiously and staring with an odd blankness out into the forest. The woman did not hear her, not that Vera expected her to with the care that she was taking in her steps. She came close enough to touch Eithne's shoulder and then, with expert care, put the blanket over Eithne's shoulders. She held the mug of tea out with a gloved hand, so that she would not be known until the other woman had a firm grasp on the handle.
"The tents are done," she said once Eithne took the tea. The snow absorbed most of Vera's voice, making it too quiet. She shifted slightly on her feet to avoid having her boots punch through the snow. "Birloch made the tea. They said you were sitting out here alone."