Lost Creek Hollow and drew warmth of blood from bone

The arrival of the second woman goes unnoticed, or at the least, unheeded, for now. Her attention is captured by the beast, tracing the scarred flesh around his damaged eye. It is hardly anything to note, and yet she is stuck on the deep red mark against his iris, a blood mark, perhaps. Poet, she is not a medic. Such things were not part of her priestly duties. But omens, signs, indicators she knows to look for. It would be better, she decides, if he were marked in both eyes rather than one. But it is something and without thinking she latches onto it. It is something.

Yes, the beast, the man, the ... portent tells  her. What kind of atonement, she thinks to ask, but holds her tongue, finally looking from his eye to cast her gaze across the creek and its accompanying foliage. What kind of atonement does she seek? A moment later, the portent echoes her thoughts, and she draws in a sharp breath, eyes briefly fluttering closed.

"Nothing," Poet finally says, feeling the word leave her breast and take with it the weight of her sin. "I've nothing left." She has thought it many times, but it is different to tell it aloud, admit it to someone, stranger or not. There is no temple to return to now. There is no wolf-queen to absolve her blasphemies. There are no gods waiting for apology with baited breath. There is only she, and this man. The hollow truth of it frightens her, a shadow passing across her eyes, and she lifts her head, her dignity wrinkled by a silent plea: there has to be more than nothing for me here.