Impromptu Nap
Witch looks down at her lap. She takes in a deep breath through her nose and closes her eyes. Despite trying to picture herself anywhere else such as at the beach or in a field of flowers, she gnaws on her lower lip as the weight in her lap shifts.
She reaches for her trusty broomstick, but it is just out of reach. Witch sighs, supposing she is slightly to blame for her predicament, but it really is all Arle's fault. Arle should have known that Witch was also resting under the cool shade of the tree, protected from the burning sun rays that would have left her face ruddy and blemished.
Witch had been jostled by a sudden presence only for that to be Arle falling asleep in her lap. She assumed Arle was resting a few feet away under the same tree only for her body to collapse squarely against her.
Arle's body curls, bringing her knees to her chest while mumbling something about her dream. Carbuncle is slumbering on the massive branches of the tree above them, snoring like a malfunctioning engine. Witch groans, pressing her hands to her ears as Arle's murmuring and Carbuncle's snoring ruins her solitude, knowing she will not have any lick of sleep.
She huffs, crossing her arms. The temptation to shout at Arle to move burns in her belly. She supposes she can, and normally, she would have, but the way Arle's hands are pressed to her cheeks remind Witch of a small child. A smile tugs at Arle's lips, and Witch stifles her laugh when she spies a hint of drool slipping down Arle's cheek.
Witch sighs, wondering what Schezo would say if he happened upon precarious position. If he saw them, then she is certain he would accost her as a pervert. Having that unpleasant argument would only serve as the cherry on top of the melting sundae that is her situation.
Rolling her eyes, she tries to reach for her broomstick again, but she only touches the grass. Drumming her fingers against the soft earth, she ignores the throbbing twitch above her left eyelid as her body yearns for sleep. She had spent the entire day searching for necessary ingredients for another potion, but she is too exhausted to even consider making it now or when she arrives at her cottage. With Arle's head pressing against her thighs, she cannot even leave to return home for proper rest.
She peers down at Arle once more. Sunlight peeks through the leaves and caresses Arle's face, illuminating the faint freckles on her cheeks, something Witch had never noticed before. Witch tilts her head, carefully brushing Arle's bangs out of her eyes to fully inspect her face. Above Arle's right temple is a faded scar in hues of soft pink. It is faintly coarse and leathery to touch when Witch grazes her forefinger against it.
A burn scar, she deduces, is the the old injury on Arle's brow. Thoughts swirl in Witch's head as she tries to understand how Arle had been injured. Arle is one the best mages she knows, one who is even on par with her own cosmic techniques. With the power of the elements and other spells, Arle is someone who is known for her scraps with villains and general freaks, but Witch has never seen Arle actually injured.
Witch glances down at Arle's legs, finding them accompanied with purple and blue marks. Bruises assault Witch's eyes, and she straightens, rather surprised to see Arle's body welted. She knows Arle is an advent adventurer, but it seems her most recent journey battered her body.
Witch clutches her nearby knapsack, the worn threads rubbing against her fingers. She unwinds the rope keeping it together and always her materials to spill out by her side. She pushes through potions and herbs of all sorts of colors and textures before selecting a glass vial filled with a light green salve. Ripping off the cork, Witch pours a ginger amount of the lukewarm potion into her palm, its minty scent wafting around her.
Reaching forward, with precise accuracy, Witch drips the salve onto Arle's bruises. She massages Arle's shins, noting the tired muscles beneath her skin and wonders what exactly Arle endured in her most recent endeavor. She presses her lips into a thin line as the balm takes effect, fading into Arle's skin and soothing the bruises back into a lighter hue of cerulean and lime green. It will not fully cure Arle's bruises, but it should take some of the pain away when she walks.
At least, she hopes it will. Her ointment is a few days old, left to sit unchecked in her bag from Witch's pure laziness. Corking the vial, Witch tosses her potion against her puddle of personal items.
She keeps still as Arle rolls onto her back as a sigh breaches her lips. Witch covers her mouth as a stream of drool leaks out of Arle's mouth, slimy and slick as it clings to her cheek. Assuming Arle is dreaming of curry, Witch sets her head back against the tree.
Her eyes drift up to Carbuncle, giggling as he rolls around in place, an occasional, satisfied "Gu gu" mumbling under his breath. She thinks that he, too, may be dreaming of curry.
A hand touches her own. Witch stiffens, her eyes widening and her eyebrows leaping up her forehead. She jerks her attention to her hand, finding Arle's hand had dropped onto it. Arle's other hand is situated by her stomach, lightly gripping the fabric of her shirt.
The temptation to move her hand is great, but Witch remains still. She slowly turns her hand over, allowing Arle's palm to fit perfectly in her own. Witch curls her fingers around Arle's hand. Coarse, weathered fingertips press against Witch's otherwise softer palm.
Witch looks out to the setting sun as streaks of pink scorn the blue sky. She closes her eyes, her head tilting to the left as her grip on Arle's hand loosens. The heat, once beating down on her, fades away as the coolness of night creeps over their world. Witch keeps still with a smile to match Arle's as she drifts off to sleep. Arle's slumbering form, a calming companionship, lets her thoughts remain airy and fluffy as she begins to dream of them together.