Faithful Pebble
Part Fifty-One
It was the sound that woke him, a slight swishing that seemed to tickle the brisk morning air. As soft as a whisper, a cool breeze kissed his brow. Its unseen lips brushed his cheek while a slight purr scrunched his nose, squinted his eyes, then inched them open one eyelid at a time. The wanderer blinked. He paused, then scowled, then tried again. The sun's glare was almost painful. Peeling his cyan pupils from its bright opaque radiance, his gaze skipped to the right. It drifted silently as he pondered the warm weight that cloaked the slight curve of his shoulder. His blanket shifted a little. Its minute rustle perked his interest, tilted his smile and tempted his curiosity.
But only a little, of course…
Well…
Maybe a lot…
Pebble, Iris, the young woman he found in that abandoned little well slept soundly against his chest. Her draped limbs clutched tightly his waist. Even in sleep, desperation squeezed her fingers and strengthened her grip—steadily, surely, firmly—until it was nothing but an iron band tying him to the earth. Her grip hadn't weakened during the night and that softened his eyes. The wanderer pursed his lips, then furrowed a brow. She was down there seven years in that well. She had cried seven years' worth of her fear, despair and loneliness. Emotions that choked her steps from her fall to her ascension, they bled into his shirt. Relief, gratitude, the tender shoots of a budding hope melted into its fabric until her cries merged into something else, the soothing purrs of a silent slumber. To his amazement, however, unexpectantly his gentle cooing had followed suit. They had both fallen asleep, the wanderer and the girl. And it was, the wanderer decided, his sleep was…
… Peaceful. He had slept the whole night through.
Sorry for the delay. I have... had... am still experiencing Writer's Discouragement. Working through it. Keep the faith. – Calla.