Hello friends! Hope you all had a spiffing Christmas. I petted three dogs, which is three more than normal weeks, so I must say that my own was rather spectacular.
This is a very short chapter, but the next one is coming right up! This felt like the right place to cut it, so cut it I did.
Enjoy :)
The cloak was the green of summer grass, thick, impeccably woven, and above all, warm. Blinking the night from her eyes, Ashryn glimpsed the hazy vision of a figure staring into the sunrise, crowned in golden hair, cloakless, and decided it was pity and not regret which had shielded her from the chill.
With consciousness returned the pain. Her hands – pierced by a dozen splinters and throbbing where she had torn a nail were bandaged tightly yet stinging with every move. But even that dulled in comparison to the burning agony in her foot at even the barest shift of her body, lacing up her leg like fire blazing through a tree, unrelenting.
She must have made some noise or moved a bit too suddenly, disturbing the stillness of dawn, because not even a second passed before Legolas materialised at her side, a finger pressed over his lips. Her companions still slept: Daemon was stretched out on his back, Anduillon slumped against a tree trunk, and Cassian rested near the edge of the talan, calves dangling over the edge.
Ashryn fell into a bit of daze as the prince's fingers flitted over her injury, sticks and strips of cloth forming a crude splint. Through the pain, all she registered was that she was being prepared for more walking, and that was a thought which she forced to move on.
She clutched the cloak tightly in her hands, the warmth too comforting – too safe - to give up just yet. Above Legolas's head was the rising sun, free of the horizon and casting the sky in pinks and golds so vibrant Ashryn could almost taste the colours on the tip of her tongue. Beautiful.
A firm grasp extracted her left hand from under the cloak, and Ashryn meandered out of the haze, dimly focusing on the Prince, cross legged beside her and unravelling the bandages binding her hands. What emerged was a patchwork of skin and scars, the inside of the white cotton speckled with blood. Legolas's own hands were warm, fingers calloused from centuries of archery, but his grip was gentle as he reapplied salve and bound them once more with fresh bandages.
It felt queer – the being taken care of, filling the role of patient instead of healer, and queerer still considering the healer. Ashryn was unsure as to how awake she truly was, feeling his hand holding her own as he knotted the bandage, lips moving as he worked. A prayer? A song? She did not know, but allowed her mind to wander.
Blues now danced with peachy orange, the sun less of gold and more of white with every second, and Ashryn was reminded inexorably of another dawn, tear streaked and numb and black in spite of the sunrise.
She snatched her hand from his grasp.
Their eyes met. Him: expectant, sapphire. Her: brittle, golden.
None of you understand death.
I do not understand death?
No, you do not.
Pride and pain, remembrances and regrets, the haunting melody of childhood.
How could you? How could you? How dare you?
The Prince moved to her other side to address her right hand, and Ashryn sat bolt upright, ignoring the flare of agony in her ankle, drawing her hand well out of his reach. "No," she said, out loud.
How dare you? How could you?
Some feet away, Cassian stirred.
Legolas was still, arching an eyebrow. Are you so proud?
"No," she repeated, this time no more than a whisper. "I can take care of myself."
He handed her the tin of salve and the bandages but stood and stalked back to the sunrise when she tried to return the cloak. So there she sat, wrapped in green as she clumsily dressed her own wounds. Cassian's eyes were brimming with curiosity when she met them, but she turned away from him as well.
They all had their ghosts, and Ashryn wasn't in the mood to share hers.
