Lady Vera of Beit-Orane (v_eritas) wrote in caeleste, @ 2008-07-02 20:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | eragos feareborne, the people of aumazahd, vera of beit-orane |
Garden of Ash { open to Eragos }
Vera squinted against sunlight slipping through the old window panes of the cottage. There was a brief jolt of confusion that brought her back to full consciousness. She shifted in her wooden chair and her back popped in protest -- revenge for an entire night of merciless abuse. Running a hand across her forehead, she smeared away some of the dirt that remained. She was still filthy despite having been forced by the healer to dunk her face and hands in water to clean up. As if she’d been pulled right out of her own grave. From the way Vera had been digging it might as well have been. Her arms no longer wanted to obey her brain, they ached so badly. Vera rubbed her fingers together before moving her head so that her face was shielded by shadows. Without the glare of morning in her eye, she could look upon Eragos. Somewhere in the early morning hours she’d fallen asleep sitting next to his bedside and no one had come to wake her. Vera couldn’t fault the villagers for not doing so. It’d taken two men to pry the shovel from her hands and the coldest glare Alatáriël could muster to prevent her from wrapping herself up in another task. The elf had a way of provoking the worst emotions in Vera, but this time shame beat out the anger. They must have known she’d been avoiding the eastern cottages from the way she drove her shovel into the dirt every time a villager told a story about how Eragos picked up a building and chucked it at a giant or how he spat lightning at enemy archers.
She’d been afraid to come here. She made the healer open the door for her to hide the fine tremors in her hand. Vera was afraid that she’d find Eragos hurt beyond repair. Afraid she’d lost him when she wasn’t looking. He’d fallen just down the road from where she and her group of villagers had been fighting… The feeling that kept torturing her wasn’t something she could explain. His was one grave she wouldn’t have the strength to dig.
Too much soil was in her thoughts.
The legs of her chair scraped softly against the battered wood floor of the cottage until the sunlight caught the back of her hair and nothing more. Vera’s knees touched the bedside and her boot tip touched his uniform, which sat in pieces and shreds on the floor. What hadn’t been destroyed in the battle was ruined when the healer and her assistants worked on him. She doubted the village seamstresses could repair the fabric, even if they had an unlimited amount of time. Vera’s own uniform was going to have to be discarded, but no one could get her to remove it yet. The coldness that clung to the back of her throat was still too fresh. She drew her foot away.
Vera didn’t know if he’d woken while she was out. She had meant to keep watch, but her own headache and fatigue caught up with her. If he opened his eyes, there was no evidence of it now. His brow was smooth with sleep. She didn’t think Eragos had moved since she first snuck into this cottage, hours ago. Leaning over carefully, so that her chair wouldn’t creak, she gently lifted the edge of the bandage that ran across his chest, checking his wound. Vera lingered only to feel the steady rise and fall of Eragos’ breaths before she took up the edge of his blanket and drew it over him, covering his tattoos from view. She tucked the edges in along his sides, gently. Someone had done that for her when she was injured and Vera remembered how nice it felt to be comforted...
There was no poison. He wasn’t dying, she reminded herself as she sat back down. Eragos likely endured worse before and would earn more wounds in the future. The villagers called him a dragon as so many in the Castel had. In the stories she heard, dragons didn’t die unless they chose to. Yet the worry wouldn’t leave Vera. Not until she saw his eyes again.