05/08/11
A cricket chirped in the distance, persistently. He burrowed his head deeper into his lumpy feather pillow and groaned, temples pounding. So it wasn't enough he'd nearly bled to death days ago... he now endured nightly headaches, surely a sign of his malnutrition; insomnia, most especially when it was one of his infrequent nights to help with the watch... So he was off to a lousy start. And where were they? He'd hear their whispered voices, often accompanied by a sting of jealousy buried a bit too deep to dig free, but then he'd listen to Harry's berating. Somehow no matter how hard she tried, it wasn't enough. Was it not enough for him either? Here he was, virtually useless, and feeling more so every time he wallowed in that truth. And anger would rise, tugging jealousy up along with it. So maybe it wasn't just malnutrition. What was this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the wind had been knocked out of him, like all his hopes were being stabbed to death in front of his bloodshot eyes? But then she'd creep back into the tent, worn down and afraid, and he'd wait for her to notice him, to catch his eyes shining back in her direction, reflecting light from her bluebell flames, the ones he kept close to remember, in the darkest times, what he truly had... But she never saw him. And he was beginning to wonder, as the world grew colder, if she ever really had...