The swamp was full of ghosts, of memories.

The air was hot, muggy—misquotes and gnats peppered her skin. Pearls of sweat rolled down her side, sickened her neck. She was running, faster, faster—her breathing ragged and labored, heart pounding, hooves drumming, adrenaline arcing like lightning through her veins. The putrid breath of the thing pursuing her enveloped everything; she could see, smell, hear—nothing. Only death; the death that the creature carried in its talons and jaws.

And then she blinked, and there was no lingering stench of death, no red talons drenched in blood. There was only Raymond by her side, and the swamp was more pleasant than she could ever remember a place of rot and decay being. He was steady by her side; unwavering, a sure arrow shot from the bow. He knew who he was, what he was, and what he wanted. There was nothing about him that suggested indecision or idle reaction. An arrow, she thought vaguely, somewhat numbed by the throb of her gaping wound and the weariness that had settled into her bones.

He limped but did not seem bothered. Straight as an arrow. An arrow could falter; hindered by tree and shrub and a poor fetching job, but still it would go onward, onward, onward.  

Pavetta smelled the bubbling spring before they arrived. The purity of the air, the cool breath of the breeze on the water. She sighed in relief, following Raymond’s lead as he settled in by the quaint little spring. Professor. She snorted dryly, a hint of laughter in her eyes. “Should’t be too much trouble, really. I’m going to take a quick dip and rinse off.” The water seemed clearer than it ought to be, greener, bluer than possible. It was not the putrid pools of decay and mold she was accustomed to—the water rippled smooth and beautiful. Petals floated on the surface; a mother swan and her half grown children swam effortlessly behind her. “You might soak that as well,” she said, glancing back and motioning toward his shoulder. “Should take some of the heat out of it.”

Dipping her head towards the ground, she shook of her satchel—something she had slipped on after the battle on the Steppes. She carried it anytime she went on journeys that took her away from the safety and recluse of Dawn Court. Mortar and pestle; a small leather satchel with fringe tassels filled with small vials of antidotes and dries leaves and herbs.

Pavetta wandered slowly into the pool, sinking slowly, her eyes closing in respite. She could float like this forever; limbo, anti-gravity, the feeling that the weight of her no longer mattered. But he was waiting; obviously more concerned than he need to be, more concer than she deserved. She rose slowly, water falling from her sides in a sheer, rainbow veil. She paced back to shore and then stood dripping on the sandy ground. Pavetta would much rather rest off her hooves, but it would be easier and a far tidier job for him to stitch her if she was standing upright.

“Alright, doctor.” She grinned. “You seem more of a caveman butcherer to me, but you’ll have to do.” She nosed the flap off her satchel, then a small bone needle and beeswaxed sinew floated gracefully before him. “Whipstitch might be easiest—less aesthetic result, but it should heal fine.” She started the needle for him so he might follow her example, wincing and a soft hiss escaping her pursed lips as the sharp needle pierced her skin together, pulled tight. She sorely wished there was wine about; but alas, there was not. “Your turn.” The needle and sinew floated towards him once more.

“You could have cut me in half, if you’d wanted,” she mused aloud, wondering why he might bother with helping her after such a brazen, foolish display on her part.

a pearl in pigshit, a diamond on the finger of a rotting corpse,
creature in whom nothing, but nothing, remains of an elven woman ---