“You… your name.”
“Fonéal. Anything that you need, simply tell me and I will see to it.”
“Thank you.” Her throat was calming, accepting the words more easily. “Please… leave me. I will eat.”
“Yes, of course, Mistress.”
He had taken on a very formal air as soon as she began speaking, not like when he thought she was asleep or aloof or whatever her state had been. He spun on his heel and made for the door, closing it behind him as he left. Óraithe laid still for a moment after he was gone, her mind swinging between food and Scaa. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself up on the bed, coughing from the pain when she had managed to sit. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of red and white, her body doing all it could to dim the pain behind her determination. She threw the covers away angrily, frustrated at the feel of them on her body.
She was breathing heavy, grunting. Her legs seemed almost not to be there until she willed them to move. The desire turned them to hot lead, heavy and painful and useless. She dragged them against their protests. First the left, letting it hang from the edge of the bed. It did not make the floor. Óraithe’s mind raced with curiosity, wondering what the floor would feel like. The soles of her feet were ruined. Her right leg came to the edge of the bed and she sucked in a breath and braced herself as she pulled it over.
Her feet found ground. The wood floor was cold. It was Bais, her brain chose to remind her. She shifted herself forward, her rear at the edge of the bed. She was hesitant, pushing weight onto her feet. The cold pushed through to a warm tingle and past it into a painful heat. Her feet were raw, but neither wet nor broken. The healer, she thought. Five minutes had passed without a move from Óraithe. She would fall, she knew it. She would not stand when she tried. She was readying herself for it.
There was nothing for it, Óraithe decided. She pushed herself up all at once, joints cracking and pain from every point in her body fighting for attention. She stood, such as it was, for near half a second before her shoulders moved too far forward. Her knees buckled and she landed hard on the floor. Óraithe yelped in the empty room. The rush of blood in her ears roared now. She began again, leaning onto her hands and pushing herself up. It was slower this time— a more awkward position for her broken body— but she stood. Steady, this time, against the near wall with one hand. Her steps were small and slow but she moved for the bowl, a wooden spoon sticking out of it.
She lifted it and held up the stew to inspect it. Peas, meat, potatoes. She felt she must be dreaming. Not wanting to wake without tasting it, she shoved the spoon into her mouth. Óraithe closed her eyes and stood with her mouth agape for what felt like an hour. She put the spoon back into the bowl and pulled another bite, chewing it viciously, moaning involuntarily. She could not move as fast as her mind insisted. Her stomach screamed to be fed.
When the bowl had been emptied, she leaned over the table, holding herself up. She was breathing heavy still, happy at the scent of stew on her breath. She stood herself, more confident in her balance now. Looking around the room, she began to think terrifying thoughts. Could she allow herself to smile? To laugh? To feel relief?
A clean, white linen smock was draped over a chair in the corner of the room. Óraithe went to it and lifted it. The hurt shifted to the background of her mind again, though any motion that was novel seemed to bring it forward. Bringing the smock over her head was nigh unbearable especially as it came across her skin. The feel made her remember a tool Cosain had used to grate seeds and nuts.
When she had dressed, Óraithe moved back to the bed and sat up in it. She was tired, more than she remembered being in the desert. Perhaps it was a matter of degrees, she thought. The window’s shutters were still closed. No part of her wanted to open them. Half-terrified there were no friendly creatures beyond the shutters, half-terrified of the opposite. She stared at them, trying to listen, but her ears were still unwilling to aid her. Her mind turned to the man. Had he told Scaa she was awake? Would she come if he had?
Óraithe turned and put the thin straw-filled linens that had served as her pillows against the wall and leaned onto them. She heard a door open and close somewhere past the one to her room. Óraithe watched the door. She had tensed again. The handle at the door turned and opened.
The breath went from her body. She felt her lips tighten and her brow knit. She felt cool tears run down her cheeks, stinging just the least bit.
“Scaa…”
She managed the words weakly, pitifully, broken.
“Love.” Scaa’s voice was whole, not hollow. She ran across the room to Óraithe and stopped herself just short of leaping onto the bed. She put her hands gently at Óraithe’s face, weeping openly. “You… for so long, I had hoped. I only dreamed…”
It was the first kiss she had known in so long. A kiss from a ghost she knew she would never see again. Pleasure she knew she would never feel again. Her lips stung so prickly sweet that she could hardly stand it.
Scaa stood up and stomped the floor. “That useless shit of a man. Fires take him.” She leaned back down, putting her forehead against Óraithe’s. She spoke again, somewhere between laughing and crying. “He told me… he told me everything as he normally did. I shut him up before he was
