4. Understanding Alistair

Sherry pointed to her chest again. "Sherry."

Then she again pointed to his chest. "What's your name?" she asked.

He blinked at her for a few moments. Then he croaked, "Alis…tair."

"Alistair?" She pointed at him and asked.

He nodded, and she said, "Yes." She nodded, and said again, "Yes." She shook her head and frowned, "No." She smiled and nodded. "Yes!"

Then she pointed at him again. "Alistair?"

"Yes," he croaked.

She grinned at him. He was smart and learning fast. And he had a name at last.

She gave him another strawberry and egg smoothie, with the Philosopher's Stone powder mixed in. It was helping, though slowly. She knew because she had seen burn victims before. They tended to be in a lot more pain than this man was, in spite of the Morphine she'd given him from her hoard.

He said something, and she guessed what he said. She suspected he was thanking her, but she wasn't sure. She patted the pillow beside him and smiled. She knew the movement would translate itself to him, but without the pain even the slight touch would have caused had she touched him instead.

She went and cleaned the dishes, whistling as she worked. He was going to be okay, she was sure of it. She felt strange, though, because she couldn't stop thinking about those fascinating eyes, and she hadn't felt that way in… well, easily over a hundred years. She just didn't feel like romance was of value, and she'd come to a point where she'd just wanted to learn everything she possibly could. Who had time for that, and romance, too?

Yet, she couldn't keep herself from whistling as she went about cleaning up. She kept glancing over to where he slept, the beautiful eyes, so warm and direct, closed to her for the time being.

The routine continued for several days, though his voice began to improve, and he learned more words. Hungry, yes, no, and a few other basics. He had even learned how to tell her that he had to relieve himself, though he needed no words to express his frustration and humiliation at her having to help him… or the pain associated with doing it.

She felt very strange helping him in such a manner. As if in some way she was betraying him by helping him, though he was literally not able to do it himself. She knew that he feared deeply the possibility that his 'plumbing' wouldn't work again, but it was of little concern to her. The Philosopher's Stone was helping him, and she knew for a fact that although it would be slow, it was most likely going to be thorough.

Yet, she chafed at not being able to explain to him, and even as she began to address the concerns of the compound again, she couldn't focus on the job.

The elf was running rampant outside in the compound, and learning the language at an incredible rate. She nearly considered asking him to come explain to the man inside, but some instinct quelled her. Or, perhaps, she merely wanted him to herself for a while longer.

So she spent as much time as she could in her house caring for him, giving only the explanation that the burn victim needed a great deal of care. He got a great deal more than he needed, but this little factoid was not inserted into her discussions with people.

It was several weeks later and she was removing the bandages when she saw that his skin had already whitened in several areas. Her heart sank. It was forming scars, instead of returning to healthy, pink, natural skin.

She couldn't tell him, even if she'd been able to communicate it to him with his limited English. Worse, she noticed, the hair on his head was starting to grow, and apparently to itch. But it was growing back in patches, bits springing up here and there, with burned skin between.

She did notice that it was a sandy sort of strawberry blond. In fact, it was nearly the same color as his eyes. She ruthlessly trimmed it down close to his head so that it wouldn't itch under the bandages, though. Handsome or not, the hair couldn't be allowed to hurt him.

As they worked on him learning her language, she began to realize that she was picking up some of his, as well. This pleased her, as she felt that he might be feeling lonely. Eventually, she asked him, though it took a good twenty minutes to ask him if he wished to speak with the others from his own place.

He refused, and her heart ached. He didn't want them to see him that way. Better lonely and ashamed, than exposed and ashamed. She didn't blame him. Though for her, he was better company than all of those out in the compound put together.