With each passing second Lanya became more alert and tense. The past years hadn't been kind to her, and she couldn't stop thinking that something had to give. Some monster would jump out and kill the stranger but not her for no apparent reason. The ground would give way and flames would shoot out and engulf them both. A tree would fall on them. A flash flood. Something had to go horribly wrong.
They made their way over a log, and she hissed and flinched at the pain shooting up her leg. She was shaking when she finished that agonizing procedure, cold, drenched and in pain. She was tired and aching. And goodness, she just wanted to sleep for three days.
Her will gave out about ten yards further, and she grabbed him and tugged back, trying to signal a stop.
"Wait, stop. Please, I have to rest."
She groaned and separated herself from him, wobbled for a moment, then hopped to the closest tree and leaned against it. She sighed and tucked her head backward until it touched the bark, watching her newest travel companion to see how he'd settle himself.
Now that the adrenaline was gone and she was fully aware of her surroundings, she crossed her arms over her chest, cursing the male who invented white women's shirts to the bowels of hell. She had a breast-band, but she was still modest. And she hadn't shown so much skin in...ever.
Self-conscious and embarrassed, she tightened her arms across her chest and lowered her face, hoping he wouldn't notice her blushing through the water and filtered light. She wondered if it was even noon yet.
She tried to distract herself with a question.
"What's your name?"
She raised her gaze enough to meet his eyes, raising a brow as well as her curiosity awoke. She needed to call him something, after all. At least with a name, he wouldn't be a complete stranger any longer.
Scamper
She made it over the log, though it was obvious it cost her much to do so. They turned to proceed, Lucian feeling the need to find some kind of shelter soon. As for himself, he was capable of lying down under any little overhang and at least dozing, if not a sound sleep. But that was an ability cultured over years of living out in the elements, and was not something that most people could do.
It had not been necessary for him to think of someone else's needs in a very, very long time. Not since he was a boy. Absently adjusting the bandage wrapped around his left wrist and hand, Lucian felt in some small way connected to that child again, when he had helped build fires and look after his friends.
It was an odd feeling.
A hand (her hand, he had to remind himself, smothering the instinct to spin away) grabbed hold of his arm and pulled entreatingly. He didn't have to hear her words to understand her need.
Rest. Pause.
He turned and watched her hopping-limp over to the tree. It wasn't her ankle she was cushioning, he noted for the first time. No, she didn't bend her knee. It was a knee injury. The gypsy's eyebrows furrowed in a slight grimace of sympathy. He was familiar with that kind of hurt, and his respect for this woman rose another notch. It was not an easy pain to cope with.
He felt mixture of exhaustion and relief flow out from her together as she leaned her head back against the tree, her eyes briefly considering him. He made no move from where he had stopped- Lucian didn't tire easily, and preferred standing, letting the rain run off of him and drip from his black shirt.
She shifted a little then, wrapping her arms tightly about her. Lucian initially interpreted this as a reaction to the declining temperature, which, while chilly, was not more so than to what the gypsy was accustomed. But something about it was... hm. The way she looked away and her posture- and only then did he notice that, being thoroughly drenched, her shirt was... oh.
Lucian knew as much about women as he did mathematics- that is, enough for basic day-to-day life, but clueless beyond. But his life growing up with his people and the lessons and impressions gathered there were not lost on him, and he was aware of the need for a woman to not feel... exposed, particularly in the presence of someone they did not know.
She spoke, and Lucian read the words fluidly off of her lips, her eyes raising to meet his.
It had been a long time since anyone had asked that question.
Unslinging his shoulder pack, he undid the flap and reached inside. The contents were perfectly dry, his pack being well coated with animal lard. A brief rummaging, and he produced a supple, thin, but adequate blanket of treated deer skin. It was one of the few luxuries he afforded himself, as it was naturally water-resistant.
Closing the pack and reslinging it, he took a step toward her and extended the blanket, meeting her gaze.
"Lucian."
His name felt awkward as he shaped the sound. He hadn't spoken his name aloud to anyone for years. Names are things for other people to call you, not something you need when you don't exist on any social level.
An odd feeling, once again having a name.
"And you?" he asked, still offering the blanket.
It had not been necessary for him to think of someone else's needs in a very, very long time. Not since he was a boy. Absently adjusting the bandage wrapped around his left wrist and hand, Lucian felt in some small way connected to that child again, when he had helped build fires and look after his friends.
It was an odd feeling.
A hand (her hand, he had to remind himself, smothering the instinct to spin away) grabbed hold of his arm and pulled entreatingly. He didn't have to hear her words to understand her need.
Rest. Pause.
He turned and watched her hopping-limp over to the tree. It wasn't her ankle she was cushioning, he noted for the first time. No, she didn't bend her knee. It was a knee injury. The gypsy's eyebrows furrowed in a slight grimace of sympathy. He was familiar with that kind of hurt, and his respect for this woman rose another notch. It was not an easy pain to cope with.
He felt mixture of exhaustion and relief flow out from her together as she leaned her head back against the tree, her eyes briefly considering him. He made no move from where he had stopped- Lucian didn't tire easily, and preferred standing, letting the rain run off of him and drip from his black shirt.
She shifted a little then, wrapping her arms tightly about her. Lucian initially interpreted this as a reaction to the declining temperature, which, while chilly, was not more so than to what the gypsy was accustomed. But something about it was... hm. The way she looked away and her posture- and only then did he notice that, being thoroughly drenched, her shirt was... oh.
Lucian knew as much about women as he did mathematics- that is, enough for basic day-to-day life, but clueless beyond. But his life growing up with his people and the lessons and impressions gathered there were not lost on him, and he was aware of the need for a woman to not feel... exposed, particularly in the presence of someone they did not know.
She spoke, and Lucian read the words fluidly off of her lips, her eyes raising to meet his.
It had been a long time since anyone had asked that question.
Unslinging his shoulder pack, he undid the flap and reached inside. The contents were perfectly dry, his pack being well coated with animal lard. A brief rummaging, and he produced a supple, thin, but adequate blanket of treated deer skin. It was one of the few luxuries he afforded himself, as it was naturally water-resistant.
Closing the pack and reslinging it, he took a step toward her and extended the blanket, meeting her gaze.
"Lucian."
His name felt awkward as he shaped the sound. He hadn't spoken his name aloud to anyone for years. Names are things for other people to call you, not something you need when you don't exist on any social level.
An odd feeling, once again having a name.
"And you?" he asked, still offering the blanket.
Yar, says I.
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Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
She stared at the blanket for a full ten seconds before she realized what it was, and that he was offering it to her. The shock of it all settled on her again. Sensible, logical, observant...it just wasn't possible. After all this time, she couldn't have possibly found a reasonable companion? It didn't make any sense.
He spoke, and she shook herself from her musings to eye him again and match the name to the face. She was very, very good with names. His flowed, had a sort of musical quality to it.
"How...classic."
She reached her arm out, braced against the tree to stay upright, and took the blanket, then started the awkward process of wrapping it around herself. Warm and dry, unlike the rest of her. She couldn't stop another wave of surprise. Had her luck turned? Had it really?
She smiled at him, a genuine smile, as something unnameable built up within her. She had enough time to supply her own name -
"Lanya Caliope."
- before she covered her face with one hand and stood completely still, trembling. She didn't sob, cry, or even sniffle. She was just overwhelmed by his random kindness, by her sudden luck. Overwhelmed as she realized she'd just left Wolfhound alone, with those unfamiliar men, and that she would have to at least try to find him again. And now another feeling swept over her as her gaze settled on Flame, her little wooden friend with the knife straight through him. She still didn't cry - she'd had quite enough of that back in town - but she did become very, very depressed. She needed to do something for her little bird. She needed to at least get the damn knife out of him.
She uncovered her face, grasped the hilt of the blade and wrapped her fingers around the robin's body, and tugged. As before, she wasn't strong enough, and the constant ache in her cut hand prevented her from using her full strength. She would have to at least bury him, but not with that...that thing inside his little chest.
She gave up with a sigh and slumped back against the tree with her eyes closed, trying to push the thought from her mind. She had to just accept it, and move on. Flame was gone, and the knife was staying right where it was. It was pointless to be upset over what was now a block of wood. Completely pointless. And still...she couldn't stop thinking about it, about how the little bird had been so active, a friend. Had even "died" saving her from a deeper wound.
You're thinking too much, girl. Let it go.
He spoke, and she shook herself from her musings to eye him again and match the name to the face. She was very, very good with names. His flowed, had a sort of musical quality to it.
"How...classic."
She reached her arm out, braced against the tree to stay upright, and took the blanket, then started the awkward process of wrapping it around herself. Warm and dry, unlike the rest of her. She couldn't stop another wave of surprise. Had her luck turned? Had it really?
She smiled at him, a genuine smile, as something unnameable built up within her. She had enough time to supply her own name -
"Lanya Caliope."
- before she covered her face with one hand and stood completely still, trembling. She didn't sob, cry, or even sniffle. She was just overwhelmed by his random kindness, by her sudden luck. Overwhelmed as she realized she'd just left Wolfhound alone, with those unfamiliar men, and that she would have to at least try to find him again. And now another feeling swept over her as her gaze settled on Flame, her little wooden friend with the knife straight through him. She still didn't cry - she'd had quite enough of that back in town - but she did become very, very depressed. She needed to do something for her little bird. She needed to at least get the damn knife out of him.
She uncovered her face, grasped the hilt of the blade and wrapped her fingers around the robin's body, and tugged. As before, she wasn't strong enough, and the constant ache in her cut hand prevented her from using her full strength. She would have to at least bury him, but not with that...that thing inside his little chest.
She gave up with a sigh and slumped back against the tree with her eyes closed, trying to push the thought from her mind. She had to just accept it, and move on. Flame was gone, and the knife was staying right where it was. It was pointless to be upset over what was now a block of wood. Completely pointless. And still...she couldn't stop thinking about it, about how the little bird had been so active, a friend. Had even "died" saving her from a deeper wound.
You're thinking too much, girl. Let it go.
Classic?
Lucian nearly smirked, but nature won out and he remained expressionless as she accepted the blanket. The idea to help her with it occurred to him, but instincts kept him in place and let her do it herself. Far better for her to struggle with her a bit than for him to make her uncomfortable by somehow intruding.
And then she smiled, a real and heartfelt smile of gratitude, unlike the bitter or sarcastic versions she had showcased before. It changed the lines of her face, creating an interesting effect on the rainwater that ran across it.
A simple kindness, Lucian silently thought. Helping the both of them make it out of the city had been a matter of survival mostly, and they both knew it. But here, with no further demands of either of them- The gift of a blanket meant something. A statement of actual concern, and a grateful recognition- not simply of the blanket- but the sincerity it implied.
She spoke her name, and the gypsy payed rapt attention as she did so, catching the vowels and consonants she shaped. It was the most difficult part of reading lips, when one gave an uncommon name with unfamiliar patterns. But enchanted eyes read them well.
Then her eyes changed, smile vanished, and her entire body posture shifted, coming under the realization of some terrible weight. One hand covered her face, and it trembled slightly, but no other emotion. No outburst, no tears. Just... overwhelmed. The other hand, Lucian realized, still held that little carving that he had picked up in the street. All at once she grasped at the knife on which it was impaled, struggling to free it. The action, or more accurately, the emotion accompanying the action, genuinely puzzled Lucian. Why? What significance did it hold?
Her efforts frustrated, he watched her lean back against the tree. Not about to cry, or even make any kind of outburst at all. Just spent. Tired. Worn down.
Lanya Caliope. Who are you?
It was a question without answer, for Lucian would never ask why she was being hunted back in that city, or what that guitar-thing was, or anything at all in regards to the day's events. That was not his way. If someone had a story to share, they would tell it. If not, there was no story to be told.
Instincts told him it was time to move on and find better shelter, but he doubted a couple of minutes was sufficient for the kind of rest she was needing. He watched her shift uncomfortably on her good leg, redirecting his attention to the injured knee.
If it was a fixable problem, it would probably be best to cure it as soon as possible. Delaying the setting of a dislocated joint could lead to complications. Over the years the gypsy had more than picked up his share of injuries, minor and severe, and was familiar with a few techniques for resetting joints, binding up sprains, and that kind of basic care.
Of course, he had no experience administering it to others. But they were all that was here, and he somehow doubted she would be wanting to go back into the town just yet to seek a professional.
So, he plunged.
"May I..." he paused, searching for the most neutral way to word the question, "Have your permission- to inspect your knee?"
That probably could have been said better. He mentally kicked himself. He had long conversations with himself in his head, during his long wilderness sojourns and as a result of his quiet life-style. Frequently he mentally played out scenarios and possibilities when he had naught else to do, just to think of how he would react if such and such should occur.
But like most things in life, no amount of planning ever compares with real experience. And in verbal expression, his experience was nil. His voice a quiet rasp, he added,
"I may be able to help."
Lucian nearly smirked, but nature won out and he remained expressionless as she accepted the blanket. The idea to help her with it occurred to him, but instincts kept him in place and let her do it herself. Far better for her to struggle with her a bit than for him to make her uncomfortable by somehow intruding.
And then she smiled, a real and heartfelt smile of gratitude, unlike the bitter or sarcastic versions she had showcased before. It changed the lines of her face, creating an interesting effect on the rainwater that ran across it.
A simple kindness, Lucian silently thought. Helping the both of them make it out of the city had been a matter of survival mostly, and they both knew it. But here, with no further demands of either of them- The gift of a blanket meant something. A statement of actual concern, and a grateful recognition- not simply of the blanket- but the sincerity it implied.
She spoke her name, and the gypsy payed rapt attention as she did so, catching the vowels and consonants she shaped. It was the most difficult part of reading lips, when one gave an uncommon name with unfamiliar patterns. But enchanted eyes read them well.
Then her eyes changed, smile vanished, and her entire body posture shifted, coming under the realization of some terrible weight. One hand covered her face, and it trembled slightly, but no other emotion. No outburst, no tears. Just... overwhelmed. The other hand, Lucian realized, still held that little carving that he had picked up in the street. All at once she grasped at the knife on which it was impaled, struggling to free it. The action, or more accurately, the emotion accompanying the action, genuinely puzzled Lucian. Why? What significance did it hold?
Her efforts frustrated, he watched her lean back against the tree. Not about to cry, or even make any kind of outburst at all. Just spent. Tired. Worn down.
Lanya Caliope. Who are you?
It was a question without answer, for Lucian would never ask why she was being hunted back in that city, or what that guitar-thing was, or anything at all in regards to the day's events. That was not his way. If someone had a story to share, they would tell it. If not, there was no story to be told.
Instincts told him it was time to move on and find better shelter, but he doubted a couple of minutes was sufficient for the kind of rest she was needing. He watched her shift uncomfortably on her good leg, redirecting his attention to the injured knee.
If it was a fixable problem, it would probably be best to cure it as soon as possible. Delaying the setting of a dislocated joint could lead to complications. Over the years the gypsy had more than picked up his share of injuries, minor and severe, and was familiar with a few techniques for resetting joints, binding up sprains, and that kind of basic care.
Of course, he had no experience administering it to others. But they were all that was here, and he somehow doubted she would be wanting to go back into the town just yet to seek a professional.
So, he plunged.
"May I..." he paused, searching for the most neutral way to word the question, "Have your permission- to inspect your knee?"
That probably could have been said better. He mentally kicked himself. He had long conversations with himself in his head, during his long wilderness sojourns and as a result of his quiet life-style. Frequently he mentally played out scenarios and possibilities when he had naught else to do, just to think of how he would react if such and such should occur.
But like most things in life, no amount of planning ever compares with real experience. And in verbal expression, his experience was nil. His voice a quiet rasp, he added,
"I may be able to help."
Yar, says I.
-
Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
Her good leg was getting tired. She recognized the way it was starting to shake as its desperate cry for actual rest where it wasn't being used. She cursed to herself, and added a curse to several others as well, blaming them for her current condition. Especially the little girl. She hadn't done that, the damned guitar had. But how do you explain that to an assassin? Assassins didn't care. They -
He spoke again, and she opened her eyes and fixed him with her gaze. She couldn't help but think that Wolfhound would've just told her to stay still and let him look at her wounds. This man was...asking permission.
And God, did it ever hurt. There was no adrenaline or excitement to distract her now, no shock coursing through her system. There was only the slight ache in her back, palm, and the raging agony from her knee.
She nodded and slumped down along the tree, bending her good knee until her bottom hit ground, carefully stretching her injured leg before her. She kept her good knee bended up, touching her chest, and wrapped her arms around her good leg, knowing she'd need to grip something. Just the idea of inspection made her cringe.
She eyed the leg, which was still covered in pant fabric. Her pants were the type which tucked into her boots, and she didn't have a knife to cut away the fabric so that he could properly inspect the injury. Well, she had...one.
She looked at Flame, in her hand, then put the little wooden bauble beside her and out of her mind. It wouldn't do to continue dwelling. It wasn't helping, and served to depress her further.
She reached down and tried to rip the fabric directly above her knee, but she couldn't get a good grip on the wet cloth. There was a rip in the knee area, where she'd taken the brunt of her fall and dislocated it in the first place, and she started ripping a larger hole. She focused on her task, trying to ignore the nagging embarrassment in her brain. She hated, hated showing so much skin. She had never worn shorts, skirts, or anything similar.
She gave up with a sigh when the hole was about half as large as it needed to be. She was just too tired, and the wet fabric too strong for her. She looked at Lucian, then waved her hand at her injured leg to indicate he had full permission. Have at it.
Her nagging thoughs overcame her then, and she looked at him again.
"Don't you even want to know why they were...why he was trying to kill me?"
She was a storyteller, and female. She would've asked by now. Why hadn't he?
He spoke again, and she opened her eyes and fixed him with her gaze. She couldn't help but think that Wolfhound would've just told her to stay still and let him look at her wounds. This man was...asking permission.
And God, did it ever hurt. There was no adrenaline or excitement to distract her now, no shock coursing through her system. There was only the slight ache in her back, palm, and the raging agony from her knee.
She nodded and slumped down along the tree, bending her good knee until her bottom hit ground, carefully stretching her injured leg before her. She kept her good knee bended up, touching her chest, and wrapped her arms around her good leg, knowing she'd need to grip something. Just the idea of inspection made her cringe.
She eyed the leg, which was still covered in pant fabric. Her pants were the type which tucked into her boots, and she didn't have a knife to cut away the fabric so that he could properly inspect the injury. Well, she had...one.
She looked at Flame, in her hand, then put the little wooden bauble beside her and out of her mind. It wouldn't do to continue dwelling. It wasn't helping, and served to depress her further.
She reached down and tried to rip the fabric directly above her knee, but she couldn't get a good grip on the wet cloth. There was a rip in the knee area, where she'd taken the brunt of her fall and dislocated it in the first place, and she started ripping a larger hole. She focused on her task, trying to ignore the nagging embarrassment in her brain. She hated, hated showing so much skin. She had never worn shorts, skirts, or anything similar.
She gave up with a sigh when the hole was about half as large as it needed to be. She was just too tired, and the wet fabric too strong for her. She looked at Lucian, then waved her hand at her injured leg to indicate he had full permission. Have at it.
Her nagging thoughs overcame her then, and she looked at him again.
"Don't you even want to know why they were...why he was trying to kill me?"
She was a storyteller, and female. She would've asked by now. Why hadn't he?
She looked at him, almost questioningly. As if weighing whether or not she should.
Then when she nodded and started to lower herself down, Lucian nearly told her to stop- no, he was kidding, he didn't know anything about taking care of injuries at all. Not that he didn't think he could help- he knew he could. He was being completely irrational.
But once she was sitting and began to tear at the rip in her pant leg, and he took a step forward and knelt down into her immediate proximity, Lucian experienced a kind of awkwardness that he had not felt in a long, long time. When he had helped her rush out of the city, her arm around his neck and depending on his support to stand, somehow it had escaped him. Too much else to focus on and worry about.
But in the forest, with no other distractions than the rain and whatever movements they made, Lucian was far more conscious of himself. Conscious of her. Conscious of the amount to trust she was showing.
There was a brief pause, after which she indicated her injured and outstretched leg with a slight gesture. Permission granted- now tread carefully, Lucian thought.
He glanced up at her briefly, and in doing so caught her question.
Looking back down, he gingerly used both hands, pulling the rip open and examining the knee in the dim light, trying to decide if he really wanted to ask. Perhaps she was merely testing him, probing for anything suspicious in him. Why should he be curious?
Slowly, so that there could be no doubt as to what he was doing or any suddenness that might... give her the wrong impression, he took hold of the fabric and gave it a short, quick tug, ripping it a few inches further, completely baring the knee.
The unveiled sight caused his eyebrows to furrow sharply as he gently touched the injury with his fingertips.
While the surrounding skin was pale and cool, the knee itself was red and severely inflamed, a good deal of swelling apparent as well as the beginning appearances of deep-tissue bruises.
But most concerning of all, the kneecap was looking disconcertingly crooked and too far down. Hence her inability to bend it or for it to bear weight, Lucian thought, ever so lightly feeling around the knee of signs of other damage.
"I am curious, yes." He quietly said at length, looking up at her again.
It was true, he did want to know what had put her in this situation, and moreover what they might need to be preparing for if there was more to this than he even imagined. But that could wait. This could not.
Glancing down at the knee again, he rasped, "Your kneecap is dislocated. If you continue to try and walk on it without it being set, it could cripple you."
In actuality, he wasn't totally certain of that last statement. He did know it was true of things like dislocated fingers and other joints, and therefore It seemed likely that it would apply to the knee as well.
"I can set it," he said, more quietly than before, looking up to catch her eye with an unflinchingly certain stare as he definitively added , "but it will be painful."
Then when she nodded and started to lower herself down, Lucian nearly told her to stop- no, he was kidding, he didn't know anything about taking care of injuries at all. Not that he didn't think he could help- he knew he could. He was being completely irrational.
But once she was sitting and began to tear at the rip in her pant leg, and he took a step forward and knelt down into her immediate proximity, Lucian experienced a kind of awkwardness that he had not felt in a long, long time. When he had helped her rush out of the city, her arm around his neck and depending on his support to stand, somehow it had escaped him. Too much else to focus on and worry about.
But in the forest, with no other distractions than the rain and whatever movements they made, Lucian was far more conscious of himself. Conscious of her. Conscious of the amount to trust she was showing.
There was a brief pause, after which she indicated her injured and outstretched leg with a slight gesture. Permission granted- now tread carefully, Lucian thought.
He glanced up at her briefly, and in doing so caught her question.
Looking back down, he gingerly used both hands, pulling the rip open and examining the knee in the dim light, trying to decide if he really wanted to ask. Perhaps she was merely testing him, probing for anything suspicious in him. Why should he be curious?
Slowly, so that there could be no doubt as to what he was doing or any suddenness that might... give her the wrong impression, he took hold of the fabric and gave it a short, quick tug, ripping it a few inches further, completely baring the knee.
The unveiled sight caused his eyebrows to furrow sharply as he gently touched the injury with his fingertips.
While the surrounding skin was pale and cool, the knee itself was red and severely inflamed, a good deal of swelling apparent as well as the beginning appearances of deep-tissue bruises.
But most concerning of all, the kneecap was looking disconcertingly crooked and too far down. Hence her inability to bend it or for it to bear weight, Lucian thought, ever so lightly feeling around the knee of signs of other damage.
"I am curious, yes." He quietly said at length, looking up at her again.
It was true, he did want to know what had put her in this situation, and moreover what they might need to be preparing for if there was more to this than he even imagined. But that could wait. This could not.
Glancing down at the knee again, he rasped, "Your kneecap is dislocated. If you continue to try and walk on it without it being set, it could cripple you."
In actuality, he wasn't totally certain of that last statement. He did know it was true of things like dislocated fingers and other joints, and therefore It seemed likely that it would apply to the knee as well.
"I can set it," he said, more quietly than before, looking up to catch her eye with an unflinchingly certain stare as he definitively added , "but it will be painful."
Yar, says I.
-
Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
He was curious. Well, wasn't that delightful? She didn't want to tell him the truth, now. She considered making up an elaborate story, turning him further to her side, making him pity her...she was a wonderful storyteller, and could make herself into nothing but a victim. Which was how she felt anyway. But he'd earned better, by helping her.
She chided herself for lying to herself. She didn't want him to know, after all. Didn't want to relive it, to see the little girl's eyes bulge out, the blood spurt around the twine twisting her neck right off...Lanya shuddered as her mind replayed it, again, in full detail. Sometimes she hated her memory. Sometimes it wasn't anything but cruel.
She ignored his remark, trying to put her own out of her mind and forget she'd brought it up. Him poking at her injury helped in spades, as suddenly she was overcome with nothing but the intense pain radiating from her knee. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see her leg. She could handle others, would even help to dress their wounds, but to see her own body injured or disjointed made her stomach roil in protest. His observation that she might become crippled due to the injury nearly sparked a snappish comeback - what do you call me now?! - but her patience and tendency to hold back stopped her tongue. She wasn't snide by nature; it was just her rotten luck getting to her.
"Of course it's dislocated," she muttered, not out of sarcasm but defeat. "What else would it be? Just sprained isn't nearly right enough."
She opened her eyes as he offered to set it, and met his when he added that it would be painful. Every nerve in her body shrieked for her not to do it, that it would make the pain worse, that she would hate herself forever for such a thing. But her sensible brain pointed out that no matter what, it had to be done. And if she ever wanted to walk or bend her knee again, she had to just let him do it and bare the pain.
She closed her eyes again and pressed both hands over her chin and nose in a prayer position, breathing through the natural tunnel she'd created for several seconds before running her hands across both sides or her face, through her hair, and finishing their journey resting on the back of her neck and setting her elbows on the knee bent before her face. She opened her eyes in another moment and stared into nothing before focusing on her injured leg. She couldn't quite make out the injury from this angle, though it could've been the tears.
Braced.
She sniffed, clearing her suddenly clogged nose, and leaned her head back against the tree. There was no way to avoid this, no way to dull the pain. It would have to be done the way her ancestors must have. She filled her head with stories of injured heroes overcoming the pain and moving through it, or accepting the pain as a natural part of life. She looked at him, her eyes overbright from the withheld tears, and nodded, then closed her eyes again. She grabbed Flame in her hand as she braced her palms against the earth, taking strength from his solid form. There was nothing to grab, nothing to bite.
Grin and bare it, she lectured herself. It'll feel better eventually.
She chided herself for lying to herself. She didn't want him to know, after all. Didn't want to relive it, to see the little girl's eyes bulge out, the blood spurt around the twine twisting her neck right off...Lanya shuddered as her mind replayed it, again, in full detail. Sometimes she hated her memory. Sometimes it wasn't anything but cruel.
She ignored his remark, trying to put her own out of her mind and forget she'd brought it up. Him poking at her injury helped in spades, as suddenly she was overcome with nothing but the intense pain radiating from her knee. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see her leg. She could handle others, would even help to dress their wounds, but to see her own body injured or disjointed made her stomach roil in protest. His observation that she might become crippled due to the injury nearly sparked a snappish comeback - what do you call me now?! - but her patience and tendency to hold back stopped her tongue. She wasn't snide by nature; it was just her rotten luck getting to her.
"Of course it's dislocated," she muttered, not out of sarcasm but defeat. "What else would it be? Just sprained isn't nearly right enough."
She opened her eyes as he offered to set it, and met his when he added that it would be painful. Every nerve in her body shrieked for her not to do it, that it would make the pain worse, that she would hate herself forever for such a thing. But her sensible brain pointed out that no matter what, it had to be done. And if she ever wanted to walk or bend her knee again, she had to just let him do it and bare the pain.
She closed her eyes again and pressed both hands over her chin and nose in a prayer position, breathing through the natural tunnel she'd created for several seconds before running her hands across both sides or her face, through her hair, and finishing their journey resting on the back of her neck and setting her elbows on the knee bent before her face. She opened her eyes in another moment and stared into nothing before focusing on her injured leg. She couldn't quite make out the injury from this angle, though it could've been the tears.
Braced.
She sniffed, clearing her suddenly clogged nose, and leaned her head back against the tree. There was no way to avoid this, no way to dull the pain. It would have to be done the way her ancestors must have. She filled her head with stories of injured heroes overcoming the pain and moving through it, or accepting the pain as a natural part of life. She looked at him, her eyes overbright from the withheld tears, and nodded, then closed her eyes again. She grabbed Flame in her hand as she braced her palms against the earth, taking strength from his solid form. There was nothing to grab, nothing to bite.
Grin and bare it, she lectured herself. It'll feel better eventually.
It had to be done. It was necessary. He knew it and knew that she knew it too.
But that did not change her cringing, her unshed tears, her despairing and sad eyes that wordlessly asked for some other fate, while knowing and accepting there was none. Lucian was helping her, he knew he was. An injury of this nature needed to be taken care of as quickly as possible.
It took all the strength he had not to say, nevermind- it'll be fine. Let's keep going.
Because he was afraid, and he hated himself for it. He was afraid of the responsibility, afraid of the trust she was showing- afraid of regretting doing this wrong.
You're a coward. Destroy your selfishness and do this. His face became a mask, the lines around his eyes hardening. He did as he always did- internalize.
She sniffed tearfully, he could tell by the way her nose crinkled as she opened her eyes to nod at him, once, and then closed them again. Her entire body tensed, blood vessels and tendons in the neck making themselves shown. It was as though in that moment she was just a young, scared girl, and it nearly became impossible for Lucian to do what he knew was necessary.
His jaw muscles tensed, molars grinding briefly.
"I'm sorry," he barely whispered,
And then he did it, firmly and quickly placing both thumbs on the underside of the dislocated kneecap while gripping its sides with his index fingers.
An eternal few seconds of forced, uncompromising pressure, then one quick twist-
- and with an audible pop, the stray bone abruptly relocated to its rightful place.
But that did not change her cringing, her unshed tears, her despairing and sad eyes that wordlessly asked for some other fate, while knowing and accepting there was none. Lucian was helping her, he knew he was. An injury of this nature needed to be taken care of as quickly as possible.
It took all the strength he had not to say, nevermind- it'll be fine. Let's keep going.
Because he was afraid, and he hated himself for it. He was afraid of the responsibility, afraid of the trust she was showing- afraid of regretting doing this wrong.
You're a coward. Destroy your selfishness and do this. His face became a mask, the lines around his eyes hardening. He did as he always did- internalize.
She sniffed tearfully, he could tell by the way her nose crinkled as she opened her eyes to nod at him, once, and then closed them again. Her entire body tensed, blood vessels and tendons in the neck making themselves shown. It was as though in that moment she was just a young, scared girl, and it nearly became impossible for Lucian to do what he knew was necessary.
His jaw muscles tensed, molars grinding briefly.
"I'm sorry," he barely whispered,
And then he did it, firmly and quickly placing both thumbs on the underside of the dislocated kneecap while gripping its sides with his index fingers.
An eternal few seconds of forced, uncompromising pressure, then one quick twist-
- and with an audible pop, the stray bone abruptly relocated to its rightful place.
Yar, says I.
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Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
She couldn't stop the tears, now, and she hated them as they slid along her cheeks in anticipation of the pain. It already hurt, and she was letting this man make it even worse. Part of her insisted that her leg was already a mess, that it was better to just let it go, to do this later in the presence of a healer and maybe some alcohol...but it had to be set, and now was better. The longer she let it be injured, the longer it had to start healing itself incorrectly.
She had to let him. But she didn't have to like it.
Lanya wasn't and had never been an easy screamer. She was already panting and braced when his fingers began pressing against the dislocated kneecap, but the pain that lanced through her body as the cap first moved and then audibly snapped into its rightful place drew a scream as red shot across her eyes from the intensity. Her hand dug into the ground, grasping for some sort of strength, while the other clenched Flame's prone body hard enough that the cut in her palm reopened and leaked a bit of blood onto the small wooden bird.
Her bent leg shot forward out of reflex, connecting solidly with Lucian's chest and knocking him backwards. It was several long moments before she could make out anything beyond the pain and tears streaming from her eyes, and even then she was sobbing hard enough that she still couldn't focus. Her breath hitched in her throat painfully, which only made her cough more. She couldn't see properly, and even if she could've she was too upset to piece the scene together, with Lucian flat on his back and her own leg straight once again.
She had to let him. But she didn't have to like it.
Lanya wasn't and had never been an easy screamer. She was already panting and braced when his fingers began pressing against the dislocated kneecap, but the pain that lanced through her body as the cap first moved and then audibly snapped into its rightful place drew a scream as red shot across her eyes from the intensity. Her hand dug into the ground, grasping for some sort of strength, while the other clenched Flame's prone body hard enough that the cut in her palm reopened and leaked a bit of blood onto the small wooden bird.
Her bent leg shot forward out of reflex, connecting solidly with Lucian's chest and knocking him backwards. It was several long moments before she could make out anything beyond the pain and tears streaming from her eyes, and even then she was sobbing hard enough that she still couldn't focus. Her breath hitched in her throat painfully, which only made her cough more. She couldn't see properly, and even if she could've she was too upset to piece the scene together, with Lucian flat on his back and her own leg straight once again.
He had sensed the sharp spike of agony rush out of her- it should have been warning enough, he figured- right before her uninjured leg shot out and connected solidly with his chest.
It hurt, yes, but it surprised him more than anything as he tumbled backward, even then remembering to not throw his arms back to catch himself, but instead just curve his back and let himself rock backward, absorbing all of his momentum. Subconsciously he noted that she was stronger than he had perhaps assumed.
For just a moment, he lay there, feeling the dull ache in his chest, making him cough once, then again. Rain drops fell through the dim canopy far overhead, making him squint his eyes and flinch reflexively as the little drops splashed across his face. He could feel the mud on the back of his head and the grit that was clinging to shirt and neck-
And he started laughing. Just a quiet chuckle at first, barely more than a low rumble in his throat, but it grew in volume until he was truly laughing- at the absurdity of it all, at the fact that she had kicked him, at the fact that he was soaked and cold and uncomfortable and didn't care at all.
He sat up and looked at her, bringing his laughter under control but still smiling- a facial expression that felt so strange but so cleansing to wear. He subconsciously wondered when the last time was that he had honestly laughed. She would think he was crazy- that he was laughing at her, perhaps.
But he shook his head. It didn't matter. He had needed that laugh, and even felt a little refreshed because of it.
Running his sleeve across his face to clear his eyes, he leaned forward and examined her knee. Still red, still enflamed, but decidedly less sick-looking with the bone back in place. Even so, until those tendons reset themselves they would need some support.
He felt the bandage wrapped around his left wrist and hand. It wasn't really necessary, he knew. It was more of a comfort for him than anything else- his wrist would not heal any more, and if it recieved some kind of injury the bandage would not be of much help. But this knee did need something to help support it.
With his right hand he removed pin that prevented the cloth bandage from unraveling, and slowly began unwinding it from his arm.
"You're stronger than you look," he said quietly, unable to suppress the smallest of grins.
It hurt, yes, but it surprised him more than anything as he tumbled backward, even then remembering to not throw his arms back to catch himself, but instead just curve his back and let himself rock backward, absorbing all of his momentum. Subconsciously he noted that she was stronger than he had perhaps assumed.
For just a moment, he lay there, feeling the dull ache in his chest, making him cough once, then again. Rain drops fell through the dim canopy far overhead, making him squint his eyes and flinch reflexively as the little drops splashed across his face. He could feel the mud on the back of his head and the grit that was clinging to shirt and neck-
And he started laughing. Just a quiet chuckle at first, barely more than a low rumble in his throat, but it grew in volume until he was truly laughing- at the absurdity of it all, at the fact that she had kicked him, at the fact that he was soaked and cold and uncomfortable and didn't care at all.
He sat up and looked at her, bringing his laughter under control but still smiling- a facial expression that felt so strange but so cleansing to wear. He subconsciously wondered when the last time was that he had honestly laughed. She would think he was crazy- that he was laughing at her, perhaps.
But he shook his head. It didn't matter. He had needed that laugh, and even felt a little refreshed because of it.
Running his sleeve across his face to clear his eyes, he leaned forward and examined her knee. Still red, still enflamed, but decidedly less sick-looking with the bone back in place. Even so, until those tendons reset themselves they would need some support.
He felt the bandage wrapped around his left wrist and hand. It wasn't really necessary, he knew. It was more of a comfort for him than anything else- his wrist would not heal any more, and if it recieved some kind of injury the bandage would not be of much help. But this knee did need something to help support it.
With his right hand he removed pin that prevented the cloth bandage from unraveling, and slowly began unwinding it from his arm.
"You're stronger than you look," he said quietly, unable to suppress the smallest of grins.
Yar, says I.
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Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
While Lucian calmed his laughing fit down, Lanya worked to bring her hysteria to a manageable level. Now that her kneecap was back in place, the ache wasn't as horrendous. It was still very painful, but it was normal pain instead of her body shrieking that something was out of place. It took several minutes, but she calmed herself down enough that she could wipe the tears from her eyes and not be blinded by even more. She sniffled noisily, hating that she'd also lost her handkerchief in her abandoned pack back in the tavern. In fact, she's lost everything today.
Best not to dwell on that.
She didn't realize she'd kicked him, though she did recognize that he'd been laughing. It'd been loud enough to cut through her pain. She didn't understand why he'd laughed, but she wasn't the type to assume it was something about her. She remembered his muttered apology, and assumed that he wouldn't find her situation the least bit funny. But she didn't know what he could find funny otherwise.
She sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve, feeling immature and embarrassed for it. She hated, absolutely hated crying in front of others. She was glad that the rain at least hid part of it, but her face blotched, giving her away.
As he began unravelling his bandage, she snapped to attention, noticing for the first time that his own wrist was damaged. She reacted from instinct and by nature - she touched his wrist, shaking her head.
"No, if you need that don't..."
She realized she didn't have anything to use herself. Her spare clothes and supplies were gone. She dropped her hand as the enormity of her situation settled. She had nothing, nothing to her name. She was now both poor and lacking. Poor and lacking and...
Best not to dwell. She distracted herself with his comment, but it served to puzzle her further. What could he mean? Strong? Right. Sitting there, wet and cold and pathetic with a bum knee.
"Yeah, I feel real strong."
The depression was coming back now, in full force. If only...if only little Flame were still alive...
She raised the hand clutching the wooden robin, and noticed a small trickle of blood along the side. With a yelp, she grabbed the bauble from one hand with the other and inspected the re-opened wound. It wasn't deep, just angry looking. And again, no bandages. She sighed, then looked at him.
"If you can spare that bandage, I can use it...but only if you can spare it."
She sounded stern in the last bit, a practiced and automatic habit from having younger siblings. The tone brooked no compromise, and of course was utterly lost on him.
Best not to dwell on that.
She didn't realize she'd kicked him, though she did recognize that he'd been laughing. It'd been loud enough to cut through her pain. She didn't understand why he'd laughed, but she wasn't the type to assume it was something about her. She remembered his muttered apology, and assumed that he wouldn't find her situation the least bit funny. But she didn't know what he could find funny otherwise.
She sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve, feeling immature and embarrassed for it. She hated, absolutely hated crying in front of others. She was glad that the rain at least hid part of it, but her face blotched, giving her away.
As he began unravelling his bandage, she snapped to attention, noticing for the first time that his own wrist was damaged. She reacted from instinct and by nature - she touched his wrist, shaking her head.
"No, if you need that don't..."
She realized she didn't have anything to use herself. Her spare clothes and supplies were gone. She dropped her hand as the enormity of her situation settled. She had nothing, nothing to her name. She was now both poor and lacking. Poor and lacking and...
Best not to dwell. She distracted herself with his comment, but it served to puzzle her further. What could he mean? Strong? Right. Sitting there, wet and cold and pathetic with a bum knee.
"Yeah, I feel real strong."
The depression was coming back now, in full force. If only...if only little Flame were still alive...
She raised the hand clutching the wooden robin, and noticed a small trickle of blood along the side. With a yelp, she grabbed the bauble from one hand with the other and inspected the re-opened wound. It wasn't deep, just angry looking. And again, no bandages. She sighed, then looked at him.
"If you can spare that bandage, I can use it...but only if you can spare it."
She sounded stern in the last bit, a practiced and automatic habit from having younger siblings. The tone brooked no compromise, and of course was utterly lost on him.
He didn't jerk away, but he did flinch when she touched his wrist. More as a matter of reflex than any actual pain. He rarely touched his wrist himself, and it hadn't been touched since, since... Well. Since it had been set by the healers in that orphanage, more than twelve years past. He had not thought of that day in quite some time, and the recollection sent a flicker of shadow across his face. It was not a pleasant memory.
Lucian had not seen her speak, but knew from the touch what was communicated. He looked up to see her respond to his wry remark about her strength with genuine dejection and sarcasm.
He felt the small inklings of a smile return. Did she even realize that she'd...?
The gypsy shook his head. Nevermind, nevermind.
Finishing unwrapping the bandage, he leaned forward and began carefully binding her knee, gently lifting it to run the bandage underneath and then around.
"It's an old hurt," he rasped, indicating his wrist. "The bandage is more for the mind's sake, not the body's."
His own admission made him grin, if only a little.
"Strength comes in many forms, Miss Lanya." It felt awkward, saying her name, even with the respectful cushion of 'Miss.' He never used names.
He glanced up to see if she was looking at him. "Strength of the body is one of the frailest."
Lucian had not seen her speak, but knew from the touch what was communicated. He looked up to see her respond to his wry remark about her strength with genuine dejection and sarcasm.
He felt the small inklings of a smile return. Did she even realize that she'd...?
The gypsy shook his head. Nevermind, nevermind.
Finishing unwrapping the bandage, he leaned forward and began carefully binding her knee, gently lifting it to run the bandage underneath and then around.
"It's an old hurt," he rasped, indicating his wrist. "The bandage is more for the mind's sake, not the body's."
His own admission made him grin, if only a little.
"Strength comes in many forms, Miss Lanya." It felt awkward, saying her name, even with the respectful cushion of 'Miss.' He never used names.
He glanced up to see if she was looking at him. "Strength of the body is one of the frailest."
Yar, says I.
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Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
She watched in silence while he wrapped her knee, wincing at appropriate moments, while she digested his words. She mused to herself that he sounded like some sort of encouraging mentor, convincing her that she was capable and strong. But she didn't feel either of those things, and although she was quiet by nature, she did have something of a stubborn streak.
And besides, he didn't know her at all. Didn't even know why she'd been pursued in the first place. It was ridiculous for him to assume anything about her...she stopped her thoughts dead in their tracks with a harsh mental jab. This wasn't her regular mode of thought, and she didn't like where it was going. She made the conscious effort to take the compliment without complaint, and move on.
"Thank you."
She eyed his wrist, wondering about that story. She was a bard, and always looked for new stories to weave into older ones to create something fresh and new for her audience. Perhaps he would be willing to divulge his own story. They would be here for a while yet, while the inflammation settled a bit further until she could move her leg without blazing pain racing along her nerves.
She held Flame in her lap, running her fingernails along his delicate little carvings. So intricate. Whoever had created him had done so with love, or at least a perfectionist's eye. She would never know the story behind her little wooden bird, and now she would never hear his song again. It was better to learn a story immediately; the longer you waited, the greater the chance you would never hear it.
Decided, she looked up again to try and catch his eye, then motioned a hand at his wrist.
"How did that happen?"
She waited a beat for him to consider his response, then added:
"If you don't want to say, I'd understand. God knows I'd understand."
And besides, he didn't know her at all. Didn't even know why she'd been pursued in the first place. It was ridiculous for him to assume anything about her...she stopped her thoughts dead in their tracks with a harsh mental jab. This wasn't her regular mode of thought, and she didn't like where it was going. She made the conscious effort to take the compliment without complaint, and move on.
"Thank you."
She eyed his wrist, wondering about that story. She was a bard, and always looked for new stories to weave into older ones to create something fresh and new for her audience. Perhaps he would be willing to divulge his own story. They would be here for a while yet, while the inflammation settled a bit further until she could move her leg without blazing pain racing along her nerves.
She held Flame in her lap, running her fingernails along his delicate little carvings. So intricate. Whoever had created him had done so with love, or at least a perfectionist's eye. She would never know the story behind her little wooden bird, and now she would never hear his song again. It was better to learn a story immediately; the longer you waited, the greater the chance you would never hear it.
Decided, she looked up again to try and catch his eye, then motioned a hand at his wrist.
"How did that happen?"
She waited a beat for him to consider his response, then added:
"If you don't want to say, I'd understand. God knows I'd understand."
He guided the bandage on its final circuit around her knee, and considered her question. It was a simple one, and glancing up he read no guile or secret under-pinnings in her eyes. They were just two people with their fates cast together for however long a span of time this might prove, and curiosity was natural.
Lucian took the pin from his mouth and deftly secured the loose flap of bandage with it before sitting back, legs crossed in front of him and arms resting on his thighs.
Story-telling was an honored tradition among the gypsies, but never one that Lucian had greatly been involved in, much of the inflection and emotion of the story being completely lost on him. Moreover, the idea of talking about himself and his past was an entirely alien one.
As such, he hesitated for a moment before offering a slight shrug and beginning in his quiet, rasping voice, "I was born and raised a gypsy," he glanced at her, watching for some kind of reaction, "most of my childhood I lived and traveled with that group in the lands far to the west of here.
"On occasion, we would set up camp near a city, and I would slip away to explore and experience the city.
"Back then," he rasped, smiling slightly, "I found something fascinating about the cities and the people who lived there. I believe I was curious about their lives, about what it was like to live in the same place for more than a month."
Fate, your subtle ironies, he though before wryly continuing in a more concentrated tone, "When I was about sixteen years old, we set up camp outside of a new city. So naturally, I slipped away from our camp and into the city, ignorant of the time as I wandered its streets. Before I realized, it was dark and I didn't know where I was."
The gypsy shook his head. "As I sought the way out, fate lead my path into a confrontation with three older boys. To this day," he mused, "I do not know what they wanted or what I had done. But they were drunk, screaming, and I reacted."
Lucian extended then folded the fingers of his left hand into a fist, feeling the tendons and muscle stretch. "I struck first, and for a moment I believed that victory was mine. Then one of them broke my arm with a club."
"After that," he rasped, eyes distant, "it was not a fight."
Silence. For a moment he said nothing and just looked at his wrist, bared from the sleeve being pushed back to remove the bandage. It had the smallest of curves to it and appeared unnaturally thin for a grown man's wrist. Weak.
Raising his eyes to look at her, Lucian offered a small smile. "It was a painful lesson in the empty term of 'fairness.' One that has not been forgotten."
Lucian took the pin from his mouth and deftly secured the loose flap of bandage with it before sitting back, legs crossed in front of him and arms resting on his thighs.
Story-telling was an honored tradition among the gypsies, but never one that Lucian had greatly been involved in, much of the inflection and emotion of the story being completely lost on him. Moreover, the idea of talking about himself and his past was an entirely alien one.
As such, he hesitated for a moment before offering a slight shrug and beginning in his quiet, rasping voice, "I was born and raised a gypsy," he glanced at her, watching for some kind of reaction, "most of my childhood I lived and traveled with that group in the lands far to the west of here.
"On occasion, we would set up camp near a city, and I would slip away to explore and experience the city.
"Back then," he rasped, smiling slightly, "I found something fascinating about the cities and the people who lived there. I believe I was curious about their lives, about what it was like to live in the same place for more than a month."
Fate, your subtle ironies, he though before wryly continuing in a more concentrated tone, "When I was about sixteen years old, we set up camp outside of a new city. So naturally, I slipped away from our camp and into the city, ignorant of the time as I wandered its streets. Before I realized, it was dark and I didn't know where I was."
The gypsy shook his head. "As I sought the way out, fate lead my path into a confrontation with three older boys. To this day," he mused, "I do not know what they wanted or what I had done. But they were drunk, screaming, and I reacted."
Lucian extended then folded the fingers of his left hand into a fist, feeling the tendons and muscle stretch. "I struck first, and for a moment I believed that victory was mine. Then one of them broke my arm with a club."
"After that," he rasped, eyes distant, "it was not a fight."
Silence. For a moment he said nothing and just looked at his wrist, bared from the sleeve being pushed back to remove the bandage. It had the smallest of curves to it and appeared unnaturally thin for a grown man's wrist. Weak.
Raising his eyes to look at her, Lucian offered a small smile. "It was a painful lesson in the empty term of 'fairness.' One that has not been forgotten."
Yar, says I.
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Lanya Caliope
- Fugitive
- Posts: 266
- Joined: Thu Jun 16, 2005 12:49 am
- Race: Human
The more he spoke, the more she picked up on the intonations and slight lisps in his speech. She creased her brow as she listened to his cadence and rhythm. She was a bard, and not a terrible one, so she knew the art form of storytelling, and could tell that he wasn't used to telling others a history. Nonetheless, he was honest, and didn't stray off point or embellish. She respected his candor.
While she filed away his style and pronunciation, she also heard the story itself - a backwards coming of age, when the child realized that romanticism of cities only existed in the fairy tale realm. She remembered her own first time on a raised platform, staring out at the audience. She'd flowed into the music and stories, found her natural rhythm and lost herself. And when she returned, the hungry stares and lurid catcalls had frightened her enough to request a room with a lock for the night.
I was so young then, she thought with some regret. And I already knew the danger in that look on a man's face. Does that say something good about me or something terrible about the world?
That he was a gypsy intrigued her. She'd never met one who'd admitted what they were so easily. But then, she wasn't much of a threat. Soaked to the bone, with a shallow stab wound in her back, a cut on her palm, and a useless leg. No, she wasn't a threat to him at all.
She eyed the injured wrist when he did, wondering if he'd ever seen a proper healer for the thing. By now, to truly fix it would require re-breaking the bone, which was something few people were willing to so, and with good reason. It was an iffy prospect at best. The arm looked weak, but better weak than useless.
She looked at his face when he finished, a sad look on her own. She didn't pity him, but she did pity the experience itself, and the harshness of the world they lived in. She wondered just when she'd become one of the unlucky ones who hide in the woods and shadows, chased for a reckless, bloody crime. Ah, yes. An eye for an eye. And wasn't that a sort of gypsy vengeance of its own?
As she prepped for her own tale, her brogue let loose as it always did while she sang or wound a fable for a willing audience. It was her natural speech, though she hid it well in regular conversation. Now she slipped into it like a lovely, comfortable and warm coat. It gave her the strength to tell him the truth, and it felt good to perform, even just a little.
"Do you remember the guitar? Aye, the one lyin' by me head in the road. T'wer given to me by a bonnie lass of young age, with hair as red as mine - redder by th' tellin', for she had fae in her blood.
"Fae, and I should've known. Can ne'er trust 'em, can ye? They trick and manipulate, spin ye into their own stories for their own purposes. I ne'er learned her purpose, though I know it were dire. She had a group of young friends who stalked me, and one who nearly did me in - a wolf shifter no less! But she told them t' leave, and they did, without nary a harm upon us.
"Not the first time I'm stalked for my life's blood. The difference is, then I had no idea why they wanted me dead. Now, I know. I know all too well."
Here she paused, and took a shaky breath. The images rolled through her memories, again and again, and she struggled with how to speak the cruel things. Blurting it wouldn't do. No -
"Well, that guitar, 'tis a livin' thing. Not like you and me, by no means, but it's got a purpose, too. Defend and protect, no matter what th' cost. The fae and I were walkin', close to nightfall, and we hear a noise from a shop, yellin' and carryin' on. So she pretends she's drunk, doesn't she? Waltzes right into th' shop and declares her presence. And what do we find, but a child. A child possessed by a monster, a hideous thing with rotting flesh and dead eyes.
"We fought. It attacked me. And th' guitar - Greenfyre - it...uncoiled. Attacked. Wrapped its twine around her neck and arms, and bit into her wrists. It cut her, cut her throat through, cut - "
Here, Lanya had to stop and cover her face once again. The memories weren't fresh, but she couldn't help the guilt that washed over her, the desire to save the little girl hidden within the monster. But she never had a chance.
She took another shaky breath and looked at him, square in the eye.
"It killed her, right before us. And the shopkeeper saw. Blamed me, called me a witch, wailed and accused for the whole street to hear. So I had to run. Don't you see? I had to run, or they would've killed me, drowned me or burned me alive as a witch who killed children for sport."
She looked away, off into the trees. She was so tired. She could fall asleep right here, leaning on this tree. It wasn't even night yet.
"I can't get rid of the guitar. Oh, it's not here now, and it won't be. But it will come back. It always does. And I avoid others, because if someone moves against me..."
She looked into her balled fist, where the motionless Flame lay, a perfect replica of a dead robin.
"Flame was the only good magical thing that's come into my life. And now he's gone, died saving me from a knife in the back. Damned knife!"
She snarled the last, and once again grasped the handle and tugged to no avail. Her weariness tore at her, making her unfocussed and hazy. She hadn't slept well in days, had lost everything today, and would be sleeping on the soggy ground tonight. All she wanted was the knife out of the little robin, and she would be content to rest. But it wouldn't budge, and she gave up, and looked at Lucian with a deep sense of resignment washing over her once more.
"It's all useless, isn't it? Not just the leg. You saw that man. How he flicked in the light. How can I fight that? Why should I? I let that girl die, didn't I? I didn't kill her, never would have, but she died all the same. Why shouldn't her family have some justice?"
While she filed away his style and pronunciation, she also heard the story itself - a backwards coming of age, when the child realized that romanticism of cities only existed in the fairy tale realm. She remembered her own first time on a raised platform, staring out at the audience. She'd flowed into the music and stories, found her natural rhythm and lost herself. And when she returned, the hungry stares and lurid catcalls had frightened her enough to request a room with a lock for the night.
I was so young then, she thought with some regret. And I already knew the danger in that look on a man's face. Does that say something good about me or something terrible about the world?
That he was a gypsy intrigued her. She'd never met one who'd admitted what they were so easily. But then, she wasn't much of a threat. Soaked to the bone, with a shallow stab wound in her back, a cut on her palm, and a useless leg. No, she wasn't a threat to him at all.
She eyed the injured wrist when he did, wondering if he'd ever seen a proper healer for the thing. By now, to truly fix it would require re-breaking the bone, which was something few people were willing to so, and with good reason. It was an iffy prospect at best. The arm looked weak, but better weak than useless.
She looked at his face when he finished, a sad look on her own. She didn't pity him, but she did pity the experience itself, and the harshness of the world they lived in. She wondered just when she'd become one of the unlucky ones who hide in the woods and shadows, chased for a reckless, bloody crime. Ah, yes. An eye for an eye. And wasn't that a sort of gypsy vengeance of its own?
As she prepped for her own tale, her brogue let loose as it always did while she sang or wound a fable for a willing audience. It was her natural speech, though she hid it well in regular conversation. Now she slipped into it like a lovely, comfortable and warm coat. It gave her the strength to tell him the truth, and it felt good to perform, even just a little.
"Do you remember the guitar? Aye, the one lyin' by me head in the road. T'wer given to me by a bonnie lass of young age, with hair as red as mine - redder by th' tellin', for she had fae in her blood.
"Fae, and I should've known. Can ne'er trust 'em, can ye? They trick and manipulate, spin ye into their own stories for their own purposes. I ne'er learned her purpose, though I know it were dire. She had a group of young friends who stalked me, and one who nearly did me in - a wolf shifter no less! But she told them t' leave, and they did, without nary a harm upon us.
"Not the first time I'm stalked for my life's blood. The difference is, then I had no idea why they wanted me dead. Now, I know. I know all too well."
Here she paused, and took a shaky breath. The images rolled through her memories, again and again, and she struggled with how to speak the cruel things. Blurting it wouldn't do. No -
"Well, that guitar, 'tis a livin' thing. Not like you and me, by no means, but it's got a purpose, too. Defend and protect, no matter what th' cost. The fae and I were walkin', close to nightfall, and we hear a noise from a shop, yellin' and carryin' on. So she pretends she's drunk, doesn't she? Waltzes right into th' shop and declares her presence. And what do we find, but a child. A child possessed by a monster, a hideous thing with rotting flesh and dead eyes.
"We fought. It attacked me. And th' guitar - Greenfyre - it...uncoiled. Attacked. Wrapped its twine around her neck and arms, and bit into her wrists. It cut her, cut her throat through, cut - "
Here, Lanya had to stop and cover her face once again. The memories weren't fresh, but she couldn't help the guilt that washed over her, the desire to save the little girl hidden within the monster. But she never had a chance.
She took another shaky breath and looked at him, square in the eye.
"It killed her, right before us. And the shopkeeper saw. Blamed me, called me a witch, wailed and accused for the whole street to hear. So I had to run. Don't you see? I had to run, or they would've killed me, drowned me or burned me alive as a witch who killed children for sport."
She looked away, off into the trees. She was so tired. She could fall asleep right here, leaning on this tree. It wasn't even night yet.
"I can't get rid of the guitar. Oh, it's not here now, and it won't be. But it will come back. It always does. And I avoid others, because if someone moves against me..."
She looked into her balled fist, where the motionless Flame lay, a perfect replica of a dead robin.
"Flame was the only good magical thing that's come into my life. And now he's gone, died saving me from a knife in the back. Damned knife!"
She snarled the last, and once again grasped the handle and tugged to no avail. Her weariness tore at her, making her unfocussed and hazy. She hadn't slept well in days, had lost everything today, and would be sleeping on the soggy ground tonight. All she wanted was the knife out of the little robin, and she would be content to rest. But it wouldn't budge, and she gave up, and looked at Lucian with a deep sense of resignment washing over her once more.
"It's all useless, isn't it? Not just the leg. You saw that man. How he flicked in the light. How can I fight that? Why should I? I let that girl die, didn't I? I didn't kill her, never would have, but she died all the same. Why shouldn't her family have some justice?"