For his part, the satyr spoke to her only when she asked something of him now. He watched mindfully and clearly provided for her but there was no word of praise. Óraithe wondered why, but thought that perhaps he was angry with her for pushing herself too hard. Or perhaps she was on the correct path and he felt no need to guide her. She thought on it during her rare interruptions to rest when her muscles gave out or the food was delivered. She had taken to procuring her own food when she was awake to make the attempt. The process had been more fierce than she expected and awkward as she still was with the Gift, she rarely made it clear with much to eat.
“Why do you not take as much as you like?” She had asked the satyr this after one of his trips to the food drop.
“I do.”
“But there is barely enough for a child.”
“And how does a full cup in the hands of another look to a man whose hands hold one empty? Or to ten men of empty cups?”
Like opportunity, she thought. Like a reason to fight.
“Beyond this, what do I gain with plenty that I have had because I caused others to have none? Fat? A fullness in my stomach? I do not need it.”
She had wondered which of the reasons meant more to the satyr. Self-preservation or the preservation of honor. Or perhaps he had said something more profound. Perhaps the word “need” lay at the heart of what he had meant.
The nights had become precious to her. A time to improve what she was. She knew the Gift would remain out of reach if she could not understand her body. When the camps slept, or mostly slept, she practiced striking her own shadow. Seeing where power lies in a punch or a kick, refining it as best she could. Then leaping any height she could find. Stacks of rocks, piles of disused wood and tools. And she climbed anything she could find to slide her fingers or toes into. She practiced with the dirt before and after and then worked again with her body. Even without the Gift, her training might prove useful.
Beads of sweat rolled down her face as the world around began to creep from black to a dim purple. The day meant there was nothing to be done. Guards would not allow her climbing and the other prisoners would not have her frolicking through the yard. It seemed to gall them that she had energy to spare and it was not worth drawing their ire outright. As she did every morning, Óraithe stood and started toward the corner of the yard she had come to use to relieve herself. It was well enough away as to not bother the satyr’s sensitive nose. The guards would be changing soon and they were the hours her protector slept and so she took her sleep as well.
The ground where Óraithe had dug her trench was shadowed before the dawn. There was little true privacy in the yard and she often felt somewhat silly for wishing for it.
She faced the wall, lowered her braies, and squatted over a fresh dug extension to her trench. She began to relieve herself and wondered if the seeds among the rotted fruits that sometimes made it into the food might grow in the soil of her trench. There was no spare water, though. Perhaps that was why she had never seen plants growing in other parts of the yard. And would the plants attract attention? The guards may frown on it. And the other prisoners would no doubt think to steal anything which grew there, likely before it was ripened.
Óraithe felt something odd at her feet. Or in them. The sensation traveled up into her calves and the alarm made her stand. She looked around, nervous, to find three elves moving toward her in the pale of the morning. The shapes were not ones she would have forgotten so quickly.
“Yer goat’s away, girl.”
The voice struck her like the weight of a heavy blow. Her knees locked and her eyes darted across the shadow-hidden faces.
“You’ll not have my clothes.”
“Oh, ain’t clothes we’re after girl. Not no more.”
She knew as much. Why she’d invited the clarification, or any sound from their mouths, she wasn’t sure. Óraithe gritted her teeth. There would be no running from this.
“Then why not piss off back to your—”
A linen-wrapped foot struck out at her as it had weeks before. She moved to the side as best she could, but it found her forearm in front of her ribs. The blow was strong, enough to send her to the ground. Trying to right herself made it worse. As much as she had put in, her body still did not work as her mind commanded it.
The tumble left Óraithe on her side. Again the strange sensation moved through her, up into her arms and shins where they met the earth. The intensity grew in concert with the footsteps of the elf pounding toward her.
She rolled to the side as he neared, not looking up to confirm what she felt. As he came past at speed, she sent her foot into his knee. There was no satisfying pop as she’d hoped, but it stumbled him. He cursed as he struggled to regain his footing.
“Fuckin’ gut her.”
The two smaller elves sprang into action moving directly at her. Óraithe strained, willing the earth and praying to the Sisters she had not dreamt her progress. Two spires of earth darted up. The lead attempt found nothing but air, its target moving faster than Óraithe had estimated. The second she could feel, as if in her hand. It was firmly planted in something. A howl of pain told her what. The trailing elf wailed loud, stopping the quicker in his tracks. He turned in time to see his friend fall, ripping the muscle free from the calf. She could hear
