12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning
Sarinah nodded at the green haired wick, unable to make her voice work as she cried with shock and a momentary glimpse of relief. As the passive fought them both off, stumbling and swaying on his feet, she stood back to allow the sailor to take control. The witch shook her head, refusing to accept his protests or to leave him behind, grateful as the currently stronger boat-hand helped her dragged the man onboard. They settled in at the bow as the rest of the crew pushed them away from the docks, but the brunette barely noticed.
“Ent leaving ye kov.” She finally managed to choke between sobs, tucking her raven locks behind her ears, unaware of the blood she had smeared across her face. It was on her hands and her clothes, like the bright paint of tribal wars fought long ago, smudged across a cheek and down her top. Her mahogany eyes dragged from the wheezing man to look at the green haired wick as he looked at her with a meaningful gaze.
“Don’t let him die balach, please. I ent...I don’t....I can’t let it end like this.” Taking a few gulping breaths the dancer moved to hold Tristaan, shifting so he rested against her lap and laying her arms across his shoulders to hold him firmly. Looking down at his once again bloodied and battered face with a fresh onslaught of tears.
“Ye shouldn’t have said oes Tristaan. Ent fair. This ent fair, ye chen?” Glancing back at Farhid, she nodded, grasping the passive’s hand and keeping her weight on the man. She felt the field of the healer, strong—but normal. Not like the one she’d felt in the Market. The vroo began to work, announced at once by the cries of the grey eyed passive under her hands. Sarinah leaned against his struggling, looking away and closing her eyes as the sound of popping and crunching bones came to her ears, knowing the act of magical healing some cases even more painful than the injury itself.
“Farhid’s the best I know rosh, outside of his da. Your kov, he’ll be okay. Ye chen?” The older witch said softly as she leant over the dark haired passive, hands on his thighs, looking across his torso as the green haired man worked between them. The dancer gasped another sob as she felt Tristaan go limp for a moment or so as he passed out, only to come back again with another crunch of shifting bone.
People came to them, bringing things to help the healer as he worked, whilst others still simply came to offer kindness. Sarinah refused to look away from the man in her lap, thankful when he finally passed out, moving her free hand to stroke the hair from his forehead even as the wicks gently cleaned the blood from his tanned skin. The cool touch of a wet cloth against her cheek caused the brunette to jump, looking up and pulling back with a frown, looking at an elderly woman who’d settled down beside her. The grey witch smiled kindly, drawing the cloth away a little.
“Easy now boch, ye safe here. Ye safe.” The dancer blinked at her, before sweeping her brown eyes across the boat and out to the landscape. They were away from the dock, onto the river, passing by the trees and grassy banks as though it were just another serene Bethas day.
They were safe.
Looking back at the old wick, Sarinah took a shuddering breath, before bursting into fresh tears. The woman simply offered her silent companionship as she cleaned the blood and grime from the dancer, searching for signs that the red stains coming from Sarinah rather than the passive. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, some fresh and others a few days old, the witch was physically unscathed. Eventually, with a wrinkled hand brushing through the younger woman’s hair, the elder left her to rest with Tristaan in her lap.
Searching over the unconscious man’s face, the woman’s sable eyes took in his fine aristocratic nose broken and bruised, and his high galdori cheekbones. A passive, a magicless golly, and yet something had happened in the street. A field had burst from the man, more powerful than any galdor she’d come across, sweeping a terrible spell across everyone in its radius. How? Sarinah should be afraid of him, petrified. She’d known the cruelty of gollies, and she’d been subject to his own spell.
And yet, she was not.
Stroking his hair as Farhid continued, the dancer replayed the morning over again and again, reliving the moment of magic in a place where there should have been none. She searched with her own weak field for the passive’s, left with nothing but more questions. The elderly wick offered her tea and a place to rest, but she refused, unwilling to leave Tristaan’s side as they made their passage up river.
Away from the Rose. Away from the Queen. Away from Hawke.
They were free.
“Ent leaving ye kov.” She finally managed to choke between sobs, tucking her raven locks behind her ears, unaware of the blood she had smeared across her face. It was on her hands and her clothes, like the bright paint of tribal wars fought long ago, smudged across a cheek and down her top. Her mahogany eyes dragged from the wheezing man to look at the green haired wick as he looked at her with a meaningful gaze.
“Don’t let him die balach, please. I ent...I don’t....I can’t let it end like this.” Taking a few gulping breaths the dancer moved to hold Tristaan, shifting so he rested against her lap and laying her arms across his shoulders to hold him firmly. Looking down at his once again bloodied and battered face with a fresh onslaught of tears.
“Ye shouldn’t have said oes Tristaan. Ent fair. This ent fair, ye chen?” Glancing back at Farhid, she nodded, grasping the passive’s hand and keeping her weight on the man. She felt the field of the healer, strong—but normal. Not like the one she’d felt in the Market. The vroo began to work, announced at once by the cries of the grey eyed passive under her hands. Sarinah leaned against his struggling, looking away and closing her eyes as the sound of popping and crunching bones came to her ears, knowing the act of magical healing some cases even more painful than the injury itself.
“Farhid’s the best I know rosh, outside of his da. Your kov, he’ll be okay. Ye chen?” The older witch said softly as she leant over the dark haired passive, hands on his thighs, looking across his torso as the green haired man worked between them. The dancer gasped another sob as she felt Tristaan go limp for a moment or so as he passed out, only to come back again with another crunch of shifting bone.
People came to them, bringing things to help the healer as he worked, whilst others still simply came to offer kindness. Sarinah refused to look away from the man in her lap, thankful when he finally passed out, moving her free hand to stroke the hair from his forehead even as the wicks gently cleaned the blood from his tanned skin. The cool touch of a wet cloth against her cheek caused the brunette to jump, looking up and pulling back with a frown, looking at an elderly woman who’d settled down beside her. The grey witch smiled kindly, drawing the cloth away a little.
“Easy now boch, ye safe here. Ye safe.” The dancer blinked at her, before sweeping her brown eyes across the boat and out to the landscape. They were away from the dock, onto the river, passing by the trees and grassy banks as though it were just another serene Bethas day.
They were safe.
Looking back at the old wick, Sarinah took a shuddering breath, before bursting into fresh tears. The woman simply offered her silent companionship as she cleaned the blood and grime from the dancer, searching for signs that the red stains coming from Sarinah rather than the passive. Aside from some scrapes and bruises, some fresh and others a few days old, the witch was physically unscathed. Eventually, with a wrinkled hand brushing through the younger woman’s hair, the elder left her to rest with Tristaan in her lap.
Searching over the unconscious man’s face, the woman’s sable eyes took in his fine aristocratic nose broken and bruised, and his high galdori cheekbones. A passive, a magicless golly, and yet something had happened in the street. A field had burst from the man, more powerful than any galdor she’d come across, sweeping a terrible spell across everyone in its radius. How? Sarinah should be afraid of him, petrified. She’d known the cruelty of gollies, and she’d been subject to his own spell.
And yet, she was not.
Stroking his hair as Farhid continued, the dancer replayed the morning over again and again, reliving the moment of magic in a place where there should have been none. She searched with her own weak field for the passive’s, left with nothing but more questions. The elderly wick offered her tea and a place to rest, but she refused, unwilling to leave Tristaan’s side as they made their passage up river.
Away from the Rose. Away from the Queen. Away from Hawke.
They were free.
