Aesa - The Long Road
Posted: Tue Feb 26, 2019 2:44 pm
Inky blackness waxed and waned across the dark timber walls. The ceiling was a sickening swirl of unpainted rings, nauseating. A cool draft billowed curtains at the end of the room and sent shivers across the room’s occupant, a woman long of limb and of taut, twisted muscle who lay atop a damp mattress in a feverish sweat. Her eyes lidded, and her expression twisted into a grimace. She thought only on taking the next breath easy, slowly, to spare the sloshing pail at her bedside further indignity.
At the head of the room, a thick door on old hinges groaned as a tired miser, yawning open to spill the shadow of a man across its threshold. Such a man stepped through, laden with a basket, blankets, and a bucket that swung near full with water. He approached the bed and its cargo and set all these things down in turn, and he held a careful breath as he hefted and removed a certain pail to a corner of the room. He returned bedside and stole the woman’s wet sheets, noticed again the hard-drawn map of war on the woman’s skin as he replaced the bedding with layers warm and dry.
“You are not so vast, absent the armor, Aesa,” the man murmured as he sunk a cloth into the bucket he’d brought. He carried the cloth to the woman’s tortured features, and with careful diligence, he cleansed her face, her neck.
Steady, slow breaths escaped her in turn as he worked about the bed. Her body leaned and lifted as best as she could to help along the process. Her gut wrenched with each attempt at aid and it was all she could do to contain the pitiful groans. Settled however, she began to relax into the refreshed nest, her eyes blearily blinking toward the roof as she recognized that this was perhaps real and he was truly next to her.
“The plates and padding do most of the heavy lifting; a frail waif makes for an appealing target afterall.” A toothy smile flickered toward him at that moment, exhausted but not unbroken. She twitched a bit as the cloth padded her marred visage, though she allowed her azure and crimson eyes a moment to rest on his features: clear and bold, unlike what she remembered. “Thank you.” Softly spoken, apologetic even.
“What man would command you to be rid of your vice, then be well of your own device?” The poet’s hands captured the woman’s face and cradled it still as he washed the thin skin just beneath the woman’s eyes. “There’s no sense in doing a thing alone when there’s one willing and well able.”
He clutched the cloth into a ragged ball and set it aside, then bent and plucked something from the basket he’d brought: a mug yet steaming. He held it aloft for the woman’s gaze. “Broth,” he murmured, the man’s lips and tongue announcing the sustenance with breathy reverence. “You do have to eat.”
“You know I am slow to let anyone help me.” A slow but deliberate response. Her legs bent and slowly eased her back up against the headboard. She gave herself a moment to catch her breath, to ease her nausea and the aches. Her eyes fluttered down to the broth, already accusing it of treachery. She lifted her hands toward it; each rattled like leaves in the fall. “Felt steadier drunk and bloody.” She growled and let her hands drop, frustrated.
“Why do you care? A lost Uthgardt without allegiance drunk of her own failings. One would think you had better things to do, better people to keep company.” Even as she retained a smile plain upon her features, her eyes betrayed thoughts of a more melancholy corner of her mind.
The blond man brought the cup to the woman’s lips, gold-flecked gaze peering over its rim to address the woman’s own bloodshot blue. “I have only my promises; all else flees. Don’t wonder that I keep them. Drink.”
Her brows knit and her mouth opened as though she were preparing to retort, though she resigned to instead sip from the presented cup. Her eyelids fell once more, and she slurped from his hand. Perhaps it was better not to fight, to enjoy his company instead.
The man held the cup aloft until the broth was gone, and he set it down at the bedside. He returned to the woman and slipped one hand between her head and the board bracing it, the other around her lower back. He carried her back into prostrate repose and straightened the linens over her languid form, sat alongside her at the edge of the bed and laid his bare hand upon her head, above her eyes. His fingers weaved into the black disarray of the woman’s hair as his gentle timbre began the incantation of a lullaby.
“Breathe, breathe, sleep tight
The day has gone with its ordeals
And there is nothing else to feel
But peace, peace, goodnight
Stray heart, stray heart, don’t fight
Be still, be still, I’ll make you steady
And I promise tomorrow you’ll be ready
To find your footing and be bright.”
She grunted in protest as he eased her back down to her pillow, and her eyes found themselves gazing once more at that sickening swirl on the ceiling. Peeling to the side, they sought a much more comfortable vision on the dark knight at her bedside. His hand pressed upon her head gave some measure of relief to the pounding in her skull, easing her body at least in part. Deep, steady breaths followed as she kept her focus and found herself audience to her own show and his splendid voice.
“Hush, hush, you’ll be all right
There’s nothing here to make you doubt
We’ve left concern well without
And nothing’s left but moon and light
So breathe, breathe, sleep tight
You cannot fall; I have your hand
I’ll be stood here til you can stand
Peace, peace, goodnight.”
She didn’t want to go, but she was, her body finally giving her the peace she needed for rest. The tune eased her muscles, and her limbs limply embraced the mattress. Even as her consciousness slipped, she knew when she awakened she would be alone again. It didn’t matter to her tired body; she faded from sensibility. Dreams rode forth, and the Uthgardt fell alone once more into the confines of her own mind.
<Collaboration with RedLancer>
At the head of the room, a thick door on old hinges groaned as a tired miser, yawning open to spill the shadow of a man across its threshold. Such a man stepped through, laden with a basket, blankets, and a bucket that swung near full with water. He approached the bed and its cargo and set all these things down in turn, and he held a careful breath as he hefted and removed a certain pail to a corner of the room. He returned bedside and stole the woman’s wet sheets, noticed again the hard-drawn map of war on the woman’s skin as he replaced the bedding with layers warm and dry.
“You are not so vast, absent the armor, Aesa,” the man murmured as he sunk a cloth into the bucket he’d brought. He carried the cloth to the woman’s tortured features, and with careful diligence, he cleansed her face, her neck.
Steady, slow breaths escaped her in turn as he worked about the bed. Her body leaned and lifted as best as she could to help along the process. Her gut wrenched with each attempt at aid and it was all she could do to contain the pitiful groans. Settled however, she began to relax into the refreshed nest, her eyes blearily blinking toward the roof as she recognized that this was perhaps real and he was truly next to her.
“The plates and padding do most of the heavy lifting; a frail waif makes for an appealing target afterall.” A toothy smile flickered toward him at that moment, exhausted but not unbroken. She twitched a bit as the cloth padded her marred visage, though she allowed her azure and crimson eyes a moment to rest on his features: clear and bold, unlike what she remembered. “Thank you.” Softly spoken, apologetic even.
“What man would command you to be rid of your vice, then be well of your own device?” The poet’s hands captured the woman’s face and cradled it still as he washed the thin skin just beneath the woman’s eyes. “There’s no sense in doing a thing alone when there’s one willing and well able.”
He clutched the cloth into a ragged ball and set it aside, then bent and plucked something from the basket he’d brought: a mug yet steaming. He held it aloft for the woman’s gaze. “Broth,” he murmured, the man’s lips and tongue announcing the sustenance with breathy reverence. “You do have to eat.”
“You know I am slow to let anyone help me.” A slow but deliberate response. Her legs bent and slowly eased her back up against the headboard. She gave herself a moment to catch her breath, to ease her nausea and the aches. Her eyes fluttered down to the broth, already accusing it of treachery. She lifted her hands toward it; each rattled like leaves in the fall. “Felt steadier drunk and bloody.” She growled and let her hands drop, frustrated.
“Why do you care? A lost Uthgardt without allegiance drunk of her own failings. One would think you had better things to do, better people to keep company.” Even as she retained a smile plain upon her features, her eyes betrayed thoughts of a more melancholy corner of her mind.
The blond man brought the cup to the woman’s lips, gold-flecked gaze peering over its rim to address the woman’s own bloodshot blue. “I have only my promises; all else flees. Don’t wonder that I keep them. Drink.”
Her brows knit and her mouth opened as though she were preparing to retort, though she resigned to instead sip from the presented cup. Her eyelids fell once more, and she slurped from his hand. Perhaps it was better not to fight, to enjoy his company instead.
The man held the cup aloft until the broth was gone, and he set it down at the bedside. He returned to the woman and slipped one hand between her head and the board bracing it, the other around her lower back. He carried her back into prostrate repose and straightened the linens over her languid form, sat alongside her at the edge of the bed and laid his bare hand upon her head, above her eyes. His fingers weaved into the black disarray of the woman’s hair as his gentle timbre began the incantation of a lullaby.
“Breathe, breathe, sleep tight
The day has gone with its ordeals
And there is nothing else to feel
But peace, peace, goodnight
Stray heart, stray heart, don’t fight
Be still, be still, I’ll make you steady
And I promise tomorrow you’ll be ready
To find your footing and be bright.”
She grunted in protest as he eased her back down to her pillow, and her eyes found themselves gazing once more at that sickening swirl on the ceiling. Peeling to the side, they sought a much more comfortable vision on the dark knight at her bedside. His hand pressed upon her head gave some measure of relief to the pounding in her skull, easing her body at least in part. Deep, steady breaths followed as she kept her focus and found herself audience to her own show and his splendid voice.
“Hush, hush, you’ll be all right
There’s nothing here to make you doubt
We’ve left concern well without
And nothing’s left but moon and light
So breathe, breathe, sleep tight
You cannot fall; I have your hand
I’ll be stood here til you can stand
Peace, peace, goodnight.”
She didn’t want to go, but she was, her body finally giving her the peace she needed for rest. The tune eased her muscles, and her limbs limply embraced the mattress. Even as her consciousness slipped, she knew when she awakened she would be alone again. It didn’t matter to her tired body; she faded from sensibility. Dreams rode forth, and the Uthgardt fell alone once more into the confines of her own mind.
<Collaboration with RedLancer>