Early Morning, 5 Bethas 2719
Demkaih Alkrim's Estate, Thul Ka
Demkaih Alkrim's Estate, Thul Ka
There was a long wave of words, and they made Faizra’s head spin. She stayed upright; she blinked slowly through the words of them, when the arata’s words rushed over one another like water babbling over brook stones, rushing like the Turga.
Faizra shook her head a bit, although it sent the ache in her temples to throbbing. Need to try anyway, even as you might be sick. Some kind of healing, Faizra thought, looking down at the bowl before her. Weren’t quite fair, Faizra thought, thinking of other hands cool on her cheeks, of a dipper which poured water into her mouth, of thrashing and coughing and swallowing, too.
Faizra glanced down at the spoon. She reached out to take it, slow and even. Her hand froze an inch away, as the arata went on. Tie you down, she said.
Faizra snatched her hand back, then; she looked down at the soup, and back up at the arata, frowning. Her eyes darted around the room, up to the window, over to the door, to the bathroom, and back to the arata once more. Her fingers knotted in the blanket, softer and finer than anything she’d ever owned.
There was another torrent of words then, Mugrobi which as hurt Faizra’s ears to hear. I’ll tie you down, the arata had said, and then I’m not going to tie you down. Ent possible that they’re both true, Faizra wanted to say, her gaze flickering to the door again.
She was weak now, she thought, but not so weak as she’d been; her gaze flicked over the arata. Maybe the fever’d come and maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe as she could make it out the door; maybe as she couldn’t. She didn’t know what sort of golly voo the arata could manage. She didn’t remember nothing of the trip here; she didn’t know what lay beyond.
A bag of coins, the arata said then. Faizra’s gaze flicked back to her face. Did pale arata hold honesty to the same as the rest of Mugroba? This one didn’t seem too sure of herself.
“You wan’ me t’ stay here until I ent sick,” Faizra said, very slowly, letting the words space out so she’d be sure the arata’d understand. She coughed, then, and it shook her for a few moments, and it passed. “And then you wan’ t’ give me coin for it?” Her gaze flickered over the arata once more.
Faizra thought about it. She didn’t see any way the woman could wriggle out of it, unless she was without honor. That arata field meant she wasn’t no imbala, at least. And if she were lying, Faizra thought - that window were big enough to wriggle out of. No harm in a few meals before she went.
Arata were fair strange, Faizra decided.
“All right,” Faizra nodded. She reached out and took the spoon herself; her hand were shaky, sure, but she didn’t want to sip from the arata’s hand like a boch. “You do all you say, and on my ohante, I ent running.”
Slowly, Faizra lifted a spoonful of broth to her mouth, and sipped at it. It weren’t so bad, she thought; she tried another.
Faizra shook her head a bit, although it sent the ache in her temples to throbbing. Need to try anyway, even as you might be sick. Some kind of healing, Faizra thought, looking down at the bowl before her. Weren’t quite fair, Faizra thought, thinking of other hands cool on her cheeks, of a dipper which poured water into her mouth, of thrashing and coughing and swallowing, too.
Faizra glanced down at the spoon. She reached out to take it, slow and even. Her hand froze an inch away, as the arata went on. Tie you down, she said.
Faizra snatched her hand back, then; she looked down at the soup, and back up at the arata, frowning. Her eyes darted around the room, up to the window, over to the door, to the bathroom, and back to the arata once more. Her fingers knotted in the blanket, softer and finer than anything she’d ever owned.
There was another torrent of words then, Mugrobi which as hurt Faizra’s ears to hear. I’ll tie you down, the arata had said, and then I’m not going to tie you down. Ent possible that they’re both true, Faizra wanted to say, her gaze flickering to the door again.
She was weak now, she thought, but not so weak as she’d been; her gaze flicked over the arata. Maybe the fever’d come and maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe as she could make it out the door; maybe as she couldn’t. She didn’t know what sort of golly voo the arata could manage. She didn’t remember nothing of the trip here; she didn’t know what lay beyond.
A bag of coins, the arata said then. Faizra’s gaze flicked back to her face. Did pale arata hold honesty to the same as the rest of Mugroba? This one didn’t seem too sure of herself.
“You wan’ me t’ stay here until I ent sick,” Faizra said, very slowly, letting the words space out so she’d be sure the arata’d understand. She coughed, then, and it shook her for a few moments, and it passed. “And then you wan’ t’ give me coin for it?” Her gaze flickered over the arata once more.
Faizra thought about it. She didn’t see any way the woman could wriggle out of it, unless she was without honor. That arata field meant she wasn’t no imbala, at least. And if she were lying, Faizra thought - that window were big enough to wriggle out of. No harm in a few meals before she went.
Arata were fair strange, Faizra decided.
“All right,” Faizra nodded. She reached out and took the spoon herself; her hand were shaky, sure, but she didn’t want to sip from the arata’s hand like a boch. “You do all you say, and on my ohante, I ent running.”
Slowly, Faizra lifted a spoonful of broth to her mouth, and sipped at it. It weren’t so bad, she thought; she tried another.
