The buildings here lack doors. Arched openings welcome in breezes to play along dirt floors, feeding carefully tended fires that coax stewpots to constant marination of flavor. The builders are a people that venerate the elements. Walls surround the cluster of dwellings, strong warriors maintain vigilant patrols. In the homes themselves they will not hide from the world, they will make it part of every minute of life.
Still it is a hiding place, this one well-made building. Within it stays a pale, slim woman, concealed by mats hung over the openings, warded by totems. She must not be seen, must not be known to be here, lest she bring death to herself or others. By that means does this open structure become a cell, a chafing confinement despite her gratitude to be granted shelter as a valued guest. They have even salvaged her chest. The coins therein matter little, but the inks, the pens and parchments, they are her means of distraction.
Her knight also serves thus, ceaselessly watchful, doing his best to soothe and charm her through the long hours even as he keeps his senses outward for any hint of something on which he can unleash his red fury at the threat to his lady. He can come and go freely at need, but chooses to stay, especially as disclosing his presence might be everything her stalker needs to reason out her location. It is hard to disguise an Elf as even a young Orc, kind though the hosts are to suggest this means of egress. So there is time to talk, to cuddle -- not to do more, with keen-nosed and sharp-eared Orcs nearby, no matter how bluntly the latter suggest that "more" would be entirely acceptable. And there is time to write.
It was not long ago that Sina asked of me whether I might ever be willing to fight, if the cause were great enough, if I must do it to defend her or Laethellewyn. I thought that I might be, but knew I would not be able to, that I would feel the pain of the foe reflected upon me if I were capable of unfreezing timely enough to inflict any damage at all.
I am much closer now to saying "yes" in answer to that question. A woman is dead for me, because of me. I cannot know the details. Why her? Why then, and there? But I could hear my Clan mates report to each other on what they found. I can remember what I saw in the eternity before Laethellewyn turned me away, pulled me aside.
I curse myself that I went aside as bid. What does it say of me that I could not insist on facing what was done? I am a medic, I have seen blood, wounds, severed limbs, corpses. I have handled all of these. Perhaps it was the setting. I have handled these, but not in my shop, unexpected in a deserted hour. Also I seldom have known the patients.
Kekra, you did not deserve this. You were a kind woman, a proud woman serving your city and your Warchief, keeping peace in the streets and checking up even on a weakling, an Elven shopkeeper without spine, to make sure all stayed well in her shop on your beat. You knew little of me, told me nothing of yourself beyond what I could feel. Did the killer know I admired you? Were you a message, as the Slayer says? Or was that arrow meant for me and you only an opportune target?
I would have been in the shop at the hour you were slain, had Laethellewyn not hastened me away the night before and detained me until the light came. He tells me it is not my fault, that I caused none of this, yet my complacency meant I took no precautions, warned no one to beware of archers.
Now I hide while others take action. What does this say of me? Why am I not studying the blood, asking questions, or volunteering to be bait? Some say that being a healer is enough, that we cannot all be warriors. Others sneer when I will not even try. A woman is dead for me, and I hide. Useless. So yes, Sina. If I have the chance, if I find the killer, I think I will welcome the shared pain.
There must be no more Kekras.
She has been angry for other people before, though rarely. She has been angry for herself, more rarely still. Anger ever came as indignation, as outrage that passed into forgiveness. She has never been angry at anyone. Not like this, not with this hot certainty, this deep fury yearning to be quenched not by rapprochement but by the swift and final ending of the life responsible.
She does not realize the source of her rage. Does not realize she has adopted it from the blue-haired man who speaks in loving tones to her while cold vengeance burns within. He is too much a part of her now, she has welcomed him inside her walls, and thus her mind subtly shifts to new modes of reaction. She is far from a berserker. Far from the ability to act upon her new determination. Only a kitten learning to bristle its fur, swell its tail, bounce aggressively sideways at things.
It is still one tiny step more along the miles-long path towards strength.
