Whistler's Pass Epilogue's Reply, 5108 (short story)
Title: Whistler's Pass Epilogue's Reply, 5108
Author: player of Charna Ja'Varrel'Kav
Swaddled in a cocoon of comfort, she lay in slumber for days. She would stir briefly at odd times of the day as she subconsciously strove to ensure that she was safe. Always the familiar presence of the mastiff at her side would lull her back to sleep, secure in the fact that if he was near and resting all was well.
Sounds from the street beyond the small cottage never drifted near enough to her, and as such she never woke with a start of panic that she was back in the Elven city she hated so very much. It was the first sleep she’d had in days, weeks, perhaps even months. Certainly, the first peaceful sleep that she had enjoyed since the war had ended and the running had begun. If she were honest with herself and awake enough to acknowledge that honesty, then she’d admit that it was probably the first peaceful sleep she’d known since the Bardfest and her last night of dancing.
Her sleep was not completely peaceful during those long days and nights. Sometimes, her mind would open itself to Ronan’s realm only to be rebuffed and cast away. Other times, it would be invaded by the talons of Sheru and she would be forced to cast his attention out. During each of these times, the comfort of the bed would calm her, while the strength of the mastiff and one other would aid her during her horror or sorrow.
In the early hours of her sleep, when her mind was still lax, she found that she didn’t care who was with the mastiff. Clearly, he trusted them. Later, as the ache of her shoulder and the mending of her ribs grew itchy and intense, she would wonder who it was that administered the cool drops to her lips and softly cooed her back to sleep.
On the fifth day, she lifted her lethargic gaze to the windows that were framed in silk sheers and watched the sun wink out. She did not move or breathe for the longest time, her eyes transfixed by the way that the sheers moved in the breathy breeze that sent its chill tendrils through the air. At her side, furthest from the window, the mastiff was stretched out and pressed against her thigh and hip. His head rested lightly upon her pelvic bone, but he did not stir. She knew, without a doubt, that he was awake and probably more than she was.
The moments stretched as her sleepy mind came to terms with her surroundings. Slowly, and with great care for the pain in her shoulder, she lifted her arm from the heavy blankets that covered her slight frame. She gently touched the mastiff’s head and felt his ears lift slightly. His breathing changed, she felt it against her thigh just as she felt his tail suddenly take to motion against her feet. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. His tail seemed loud in the quiet room.
She silently struggled to not let the tears she felt building in her eyes spill and swallowed against the burn they created in her throat. The peace of the growing night surrounded her and she felt security, a calm that she had thought would never come.
Gently petting the mastiff’s head, she allowed herself a small cry and felt the relief of it make her limbs weak. Exhausted at the end, she fell into a deep, healing slumber that lasted only a few hours. When she woke a single candle burned in the room’s far corner and illuminated the face of her benefactor.
Motion beyond the book propped on his knee drew his attention, pulling his gaze over to the bed where the girl had laid this past week. He slowly replaced the tattered ribbon he had been using as a makeshift bookmark and closed the tome, laying it down on the small table at his side.
He rose and strode forward slowly, drawing his long hair back and tying it loosely at the nape of his neck. The girl stirred, her head shifting to one side letting her eyes meet his. He resisted the smile that fought for control of his lips and stepped lightly to the far side of the bed, her gaze following him slowly. She looked tired, which was not unexpected, but she still had that fierce determination lurking deep in those hazel orbs. Good, he thought.
Perching lightly on the edge of the stuffed mattress, he brushed the stray hairs from her eyes, raising some color in her cheeks, and pressed the back of his hand against her forehead with a distant look of wondering on his face, then slid it down to her cheek and finally to her neck. He pulled back at the loosely laced neckline, probing the dressing on her torn shoulders gently.
Not meeting the girl's gaze, he pulled back the blanket which she laid beneath. He lifted the silk shirt she still wore, exposing the bandaging across her abdomen as he bent close, his hand pressing lightly at her wounded side. The girl winced slightly, absently shrugging and pushing the shirt down with her free hand.
"You're healing well, better than I would have expected," the elf said, pulling the blanket higher again. "Your arm?" he asked, indicating the shoulder he had no checked, "How does it feel?" The girl gave him an odd look, shifting the arm slightly and wincing again.
"Hurts, but wha’ doesnae kill ye…," she said in a casual tone leaving the rest of the proverb to trail off. She gave the elf that quizzical, childish look that was so characteristic of her to which he merely nodded.
"You've been sleeping for nearly a week," he continued coolly, straightening his back and looking toward the open window, "I was not sure if you'd wake, but I had faith in your strength." He stood again, moving to the window and pulling away from the long drapes. A chill gust of fresh air ruffled their edges, sending the flame on the candle dancing shadows across the walls.
Misconstruing his movement, she hoarsely said, “Dun close it, please.”
Her hand subconsciously rising from the mastiff’s head towards the elf causing her to wince in pain. Feebly, she lowered it back to the waiting mastiff’s head and began to take stock in her surroundings. The place was new but had a feeling of old to it that was oddly comforting to someone so young. Her eyes slipped closed as she carefully drew her fingers to the neck of her shirt. Trailing her fingers down her slight frame, she began to realize she wasn’t dressed in her normal clothing or even anything that she possessed. The garment that draped her was far finer than anything that she had, or probably would ever own.
Her body tensed, she half-heartedly stifled a groan and lifted her eyes to the other. A bit of alarm showed in the edges and her face was a careful mask of forced joviality.
He continued to stand at the window in the path of the breeze that was gathering strength as the weather changed and shifted. His long hair was quickly loosed of its recent bindings and began to dance about his head in a strange halo created by the ethereal fingers of air that invaded the small bedroom. Beyond the open panes, the sky darkened ominously as rain traversed the sky. Sporadically, streaks of lightning played hop-scotch in the stratosphere and illuminated his features in a pale blue light.
Comforted by his quiet, and the way he did not rush towards her or stare at her, she swallowed the rising panic. She’d been asleep for a week, she was still hurt, but not in ways that should cause her distress. While it was true she wore clothing not her own, she rationalized, he was a man of honor and would never dream of doing anything untoward to her.
Swallowing again, she quietly asked, “Whar ‘er my weapons an’ clothin’?”
She glanced at the mastiff at her side as she spoke, and watched as he ducked his head beneath his paws. Moments later, and before the elf could reply, he lifted his head from them again and seemed to wink at her. Surely, no harm could have been that great if the mastiff was trying to play hide and seek with her.
He turned to her, brushing his now loose hair behind his ears, and motioned toward the large padded chair next to the bed. She in turn followed his gesture. Piled clean and blood-free and perhaps cleaner than they’d been while in her possession, were the familiar tunic, boots, and longcoat that once adorned her. Dangling from the back of the chair was her harness showing not only tell-tale signs of recent polishing but the bulge of her weapons. She immediately recognized the form of her khopesh within its length, and a soft sigh slipped from her lips.
Tilting her head towards him once again, she purposefully sought to link with his cool steel grey gaze. “How,” she began quizzically, her brow arching in wonder.