Disclaimer:Still don't owe nothing.
"That's how it starts, sir. The fever, the rage, the feeling of powerlessness that turns good men... cruel."
- Alfred (Batman vs Superman)
Chapter 2
Falling Skies (2)
Ultear eases him down on the bed on his side soon as she finishes wrapping his wounds in strips of clean linen. He has fallen asleep, but aside from slumping slightly forward he remained seated upright till she was done. Considerate, even when unconcious.
But not considerate enough.
The linen Ultear used had been bought for this express purpose. And it hadn't come cheap. The swathes had cost most of the earnings she made by bartering batches of medicines that had taken her six gruelling months to prepare.
Prices have skyrocketed. Trade routes are choked with pulndered caravans and rotting corpses, falling prey to the anarchists' three pronged strategy.
The rebel armies cannot fight on empty stomach and, no matter how sympathetic to their cause they exhort to be, their "friends" would not part even with a bowstring without gold.
Secondly, scaring off the traders hits the King and His subjects hard. Harder than it does them. Replinishng funds might become a bit of a problem in short term for rebels themselves, but they have several alternates- the Crown doesn't. Loss of trade from East for long would cripple the Kingdom. And the longer it takes for safe passages to be ensured, the lasting the scars will turn.
And the last, also the cruelest, part of their approach was to hammer the locals into joining the rebels' cause. Manpower is always in demand especially when the nature of occupation includes maiming and murder on a regular basis. And while common folk are largely peace-loving, desperate times make villains out of us all. Their sources of livelihood, the businesses that served as the backbone of the district's economy, were largely dependant on the patronage that the plining merchants brought. As their numbers reduced drastically the businesses dried up and blew away. People have been forced into unemployment.
Seeing their lives plunge into hopelessness with no reprive visible in near future, in their desperation, they jump the bandwagon.
The Crown has stationed forces at some of the chief roads- the Golden Veins, as they are called- but that doesn't seem to help the situation much. The manpower doesn't come cheap- meaning taxes, levied upon those that people already pay to keep the Crown plump and happy.
Then, of course, there was the matter of corruption. Members of the Valor demanding commisions for services they are honor bound to provide.
All these things have conspired to make live hell in the region. But even if the situation is at an all time worst, Ultear should have been able to get by well had she chosen to play her hand differently.
Medicines in any age are greatly sought after, but the current crisis had raised the value of her services and goods literaly to gold. Or it would have, had the people any. They could barely afford a square meal. And it broke Ultear's heart to watch women succumb to anemia, toddlers with bloated bellies and bony limbs hobble and bray helplessly. And, even though the swathes of linen hadn't been among them-mainly they were purchased directly from a passing merchant instead of a townsfolk- there are things that cannot be bought with gold. Things like loyalty; love; the infinite gratitude a father feels when his newborn is delivered safely and his wife not only survies but continue to live healthy.
Not to mention the peace of mind it brings.
But saving this boy- Gray- hadn't been done for any of those reasons.
It hadn't broken her heart to see him torn and bleeding. At one point in her life, she had torn and bled men herself with impunity. Suffering of barbarians has never stirred sympathy in her heart. And, from the moment she had first seen him, there had been a lingering doubt in the back of her mind that he was one.
Harboring him under her roof didn't fill her with warm fuzzy contentment but evoked dark musing of the cruel fate that would befall her should their collusion be discovered.
Yet there is no denying the tenderness she felt while tending his wounds. The ache that throbs in her chest everytime he speaks in his tired melancholic voice. The sadness his departure fills her with.
Why?
Why risk her life, squander her meagre resources on a man- a boy- she never knew; who has only ever repayed her efforts with mere words, even if they were sincere, of gratitude.
This line of thought made her wonder if she had done it for some reward, then?
Ultear carefully pulls the sheets over Gray, mindful not to irritate his wounds.
But what reward could she have hoped to receive from him- a boy whom she had known, even without it being explicitly stated, had no one to go to and spent his days battling for basic rights? At best he was a savage, at worst a slave. So what were her expectations of him- of herself- when she took him in, healed him, fed him and kept his secret at a great personal risk?
The hovel is suddenly plunged into inky shadows as lightning screams outside and thunder smashes the skies.
There are no answers forthcoming to solve Ultear's dillema. None uncomplicated, at least. And she has no appetite for complicated. She wouldn't have secluded herself to a forgotten cranny of the world if she did.
Maybe, it had just been a passing whim. An impulse she had given in to and now refused to abandon lest her efforts be washed down the gutter- the only place she could imagine no name rebels like him get in lieu of a burial site.
Yes, that sounds somewhat logical and thoroughly uncomplicated. Just one of the vagaries of her whimsical self. So much easier to deal with.
Happy with her rationalization, Ultear rose to her feet and with a sigh of relief moves away. She pulls a book from the rickety shelf and plops down in a chair by the window and within moments loses herself in its pages.
A booming thunder jolts her awake hours later. The book hits the floor with a thud as Ultear sits ramrod straight with a start in her chair. She glares ahead, wide-eyed, for few disconcerted seconds, her chest rising and falling quickly.
Soon coherent thought floods in and realization strikes that it had only been thunder that awoke her. She sags a little in the chair, sweat breaking out on her brow. Ultear massages her temples slowly and allows herself a weary groan.
It's past evening and the room is pitch black now. The rain outside continues unabated.
Ultear rise from her chair and carefully navigates in the dark to the cupboard where she keeps the candles and the kerosene lamp. She pulls open the doors and takes out a couple of candles.
Seconds later the dark receedes to the corners as the match is struck and the candle lit.
Ultear's eyes immediately flick to the bed where she finds Gray lying in exactly the same position she had left him.
She picks up the book from the floor, sets it back on the shelf and moves to Gray's bedside.
His breathing seems to have become less labored. There is no sign of pain on his face. Ultear tells herself that she should be a little nonplussed at the inhumane rate his body seems to heal but for some reason even the first time she watched him stroll out of the door just after a night's rest- stab wounds healed; broken arm all but fixed- it hadn't truly shocked her.
But the wounds this time are worse. She doubts any other human being would've even been able to make it to her door. Much less sleep them off like a bad hangover. His injuries, their sheer number and placement, make it seem as if he wereb ambushed by a squad. The wounds on the back were particularly barbaric.
Idle curiosity wonders what or rather who gave him the worst of them, but decides she does not care much. When it comes to Gray, only his health seems to matter to her.
And the small talks they had.
a/n: Another short chapter. And even though the tale doesn't progress much, I felt a peek into Ultears bewildering mind, full of inconsistencies and peculiar notions, was needed for us to progress.