Softly my thoughts /
whispered invisible words.
☼
Her waking body was maladjusted to their journeying, and her limbs felt boneless beneath her weight. Hunger and thirst felt foreign, like creatures of their own volition, gnawing and pulling her attention into separate directions. She heeded neither, allowed her eyes to instead, weather the sight of the breath that swelled Avallac’h’s chest. He, at least, was more willing to show the minute signs of wear and tear—infinitesimal symptoms that she kept under wraps.
Later, maybe, if she found herself alone. Then, and only then, would she let her quivering limbs sink back to the sand. If she did not rise, then so be it—there would only be the desert to judge her. She dared not sink to the ground now, haunted by the crippling pride that would not deign to ask for help.
Her words were so small, so useless, and yet he found reason to respond. She couldn’t help the bittersweet tang of gratitude that demanded her attention to turn to him, frustratingly relieved that he could do more than nod in answer. It filled the ravines that dug through her mind with purpose, smoothing the bottomless pits that threatened to sink her with a safety net—however fleeting.
For appearance sake?
She didn’t believe him, but only the mellow glint that shone within her pale eyes betrayed that, her brow drawing together. As fortune would have it, he continued—and a shallow huff of laughter left her muzzle. It was enough to rain genuine humor upon the desert heart, and she shook her head stiffly in answer.
“You hardly strike me as a materialistic man,” more likely, he wore it in preparation of shedding it to offer help to the first wounded face, as he had with her. Hälla did not outwardly state as much, but then, she didn’t have to—it showed plainly within the skeptical arch of her brow, even if she pursued the topic no further.
His words over asking for an answer, yet knowing he was obligated no reply, had added a sliver of reservation to her willingness to pry. She would not ask anymore of him than she was willing to give, herself; her gratitude, at least, could afford him that small favor.
Straightening, the mare drew in a deep breath, which was just as quick to leave her scarred lips as he spoke again, a dry chuckle echoing him.
“I would have left you in the sand had I thought you’d taken too much of my time,” she answered lazily, her honesty forthright. “You’ll know, should that happen.” The glance she gave him, accompanied with a jaded smile, betrayed as much.
He continued to surprise her. His selflessness, his chivalry, left nothing to be desired but for a fault. And she wondered what lay at the heart of his being: what crimes, what filth, had lead him to such a path of righteousness?
Or was it possible that a person—a man, most of all—could be capable of a lifetime of good? She doubted it. She doubted anyone ever could.
And yet still, he went on with his worry. Her gaze was dashed with reserved surprise, and a bit of apprehension, as he continued. Her teeth ground together, her chin lifted—she would be fine.
“Hopefully, a long and virtuous life awaits me,” she drawled, smiling, before committing to a sobering answer. “I cannot say for sure. Not yet—maybe not ever.” The catacombs had trapped her for a reason. So, too, had they spat her out. She would not give in to the temptation to delve into her thoughts and discover, perhaps, why.
“Not Solterra, for the time being,” her lip twitched. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I always am.
Was that true? She didn’t know.
“Why do you worry?” her head angled in his direction, her eyes squinting with skepticism. They had brushed by this subject earlier in the day, but she couldn’t resist approaching it again. “What do you hope to gain from it?”
Something. She couldn’t imagine he wanted for nothing in return.
