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The cellae of the Mont Sauvage himmel had never felt so cold before. Doubtless, it was cold; this high up above the mountains the wind was punishing and ice and snow were common this time of year. But it had never seemed so cold before.
This cellae itself didn’t help. It was stark and bare, but the pallet bed was comfortable enough. Why shouldn’t it be? A mattress stuffed generously with the feathers of Engel should be downright heavenly. She wished she were back in Frieburg, though. Back home, in her own cellae, able to run and hide in her own forest for days on end until the ache in her chest began to numb. She felt embarrassed; the way she behaved at the ruins of the bell tower was less than graceful to say the least. She cried and cursed him as the ashes scattered, and she couldn’t really recall much after that.
Oh, there it is. She remembered, in little bits and pieces; Ossiel lifting her, the faces of her fellowship and of the Urielites gathered behind Quoriel, Schaliel looking so vulnerable with the tear tracks cleaning his cheeks of the blood and soot on his face. Waking here cleaned and her wounds dressed, and feeling so cold and hurt.
It was strange, and a little bit troubling how acutely she felt Beoloth’s loss. Yes, they had been comrades in arms for a long while now and even though they fought often there was playfulness about it. He also saved her from serious injury more than once, and she had thought he looked at her in a certain way… But that thought now made her eyes sting again and made her feel oddly guilty.
She sighed and rolled over, rummaging absently in her rucksack. She didn’t normally take one since it slowed her down, but with Frieburg being threatened… she wanted to keep what few treasures she had nearby. She gently removed one of them now, a pretty ceramic and glass box no bigger than her two fists side by side. She opened it and looked at what was inside, like highly polished silver ingots about the length of her thumb. She stroked the three rows of ten with her fingertip, thirty pieces of silver almost seeming to sing back at her. It was comforting.
She was just putting the box away when the door to her cellae slid open with a soft hiss.
“Cathetel, you’re awake. I brought some food and another blanket.”
The door slid closed behind him, and she could see the concern in his hazel eyes. She smiled weakly, making room for him to sit beside her. It wasn’t a dream, he was here; her heart gave a little jump.
“Thank you. For everything, Ossiel. We should talk.”
This cellae itself didn’t help. It was stark and bare, but the pallet bed was comfortable enough. Why shouldn’t it be? A mattress stuffed generously with the feathers of Engel should be downright heavenly. She wished she were back in Frieburg, though. Back home, in her own cellae, able to run and hide in her own forest for days on end until the ache in her chest began to numb. She felt embarrassed; the way she behaved at the ruins of the bell tower was less than graceful to say the least. She cried and cursed him as the ashes scattered, and she couldn’t really recall much after that.
Oh, there it is. She remembered, in little bits and pieces; Ossiel lifting her, the faces of her fellowship and of the Urielites gathered behind Quoriel, Schaliel looking so vulnerable with the tear tracks cleaning his cheeks of the blood and soot on his face. Waking here cleaned and her wounds dressed, and feeling so cold and hurt.
It was strange, and a little bit troubling how acutely she felt Beoloth’s loss. Yes, they had been comrades in arms for a long while now and even though they fought often there was playfulness about it. He also saved her from serious injury more than once, and she had thought he looked at her in a certain way… But that thought now made her eyes sting again and made her feel oddly guilty.
She sighed and rolled over, rummaging absently in her rucksack. She didn’t normally take one since it slowed her down, but with Frieburg being threatened… she wanted to keep what few treasures she had nearby. She gently removed one of them now, a pretty ceramic and glass box no bigger than her two fists side by side. She opened it and looked at what was inside, like highly polished silver ingots about the length of her thumb. She stroked the three rows of ten with her fingertip, thirty pieces of silver almost seeming to sing back at her. It was comforting.
She was just putting the box away when the door to her cellae slid open with a soft hiss.
“Cathetel, you’re awake. I brought some food and another blanket.”
The door slid closed behind him, and she could see the concern in his hazel eyes. She smiled weakly, making room for him to sit beside her. It wasn’t a dream, he was here; her heart gave a little jump.
“Thank you. For everything, Ossiel. We should talk.”
