three days? four? two, at least. silvertongue lay in the cave, brought medicine and food, water if she wished it. though she had not wanted to know, idle listening suggested their names. first, the three men deferred to the woman who had scarcely left her side.
@Andromache. their names appeared to be
@Faustus,
@Euryalos, and nikolaos. the last two spoke only the language that carried its hint of familiarity. silvertongue kept from them all, and thought so fiercely upon wren that dawn brought her up and from the cave, taking two steps in the direction of the rising sun valley before pain dumped her into a hissing tumble, a loud swearing shouted in español on the corner of a sob.
He drifted around the den in those days, as that was where they all seemed to gather. Euryalos brought food to Andromache, to the ghost haunting the sick den.
That was where he came this morning, tired eyes red rimmed from late nights. The cry ahead made him speed up, despite how it grated against his frayed nerves. And there was their ghost, sprawled against the ground. He dropped the rabbit he had been carrying, critical eyes sweeping the coat of the woman, before he grunted. Then, he stepped forward, offering a shoulder to lean against to regain her feet.
They couldn’t understand each other, but he could help silently.
The mystery girl still remains. Faustus, ever the invaluable host, and Andromache hovering at her side perhaps more than was necessary. He sought the supplies and had his people bring them — not for his own lack of wanting to speak with her, but an itch told him he was better along the sidelines. The care of ailing and emotionally troubled women was not exactly something his father had taught him.
The hissing call and subsequent sob, however, earns his attention. As he arrives, Euryalos is already there, dawnlight seeping into the valley through the groveline. He offers his own assistance.
For a time, he merely watches; studying, learning, inquiry draped over his narrow features. What had she been running from?
men, around her, the silent ones. the accented ones. all of them spoke that language, one she did not know. the scent of rabbit hotly filled the warm air. she felt his shoulder against her own and wanted to lash at him, but refrained. instead, silvertongue stood and kept her eyes upon the sand, grunting with effort. "i have to go. soon." soon. what was soon? tears filled her gaze and she fought the impending sobs, limping slowly back toward the cave.
She spoke, and though Euryalos understood, he did not speak such a language. He was quiet, for a moment, then tilted his head to the small woman.
He made a little grunt, to try and catch her attention, then moved his head. Go now, He pointed to the distance, the way they had come.
Or back to the den. Pointed to the hole in the ground. He shrugged his shoulders.
Not for me to decide.
She mumbles something in common tongue that he hears from over the shoulder of his soldier. His eyes narrow, vampiric; she was not intent on staying, nor would he force her to, but what waited for her? He whispers wine-country accented Greek to Euryalos; do not push her; before he circles around his side to slink closer to her makeshift home.
You are welcome to stay as long as you need,
his neck cranes birdlike before he shifts to a soft stance of pride beside his soldier. Do not feel rushed. Unless there is somewhere you need to be?
one did not care whether she went or stayed. the other expressed a concern that only infuriated silvertongue; it showed in the quick flash of her eyes, the teeth unsheathed to their tips, only for a moment — and then she had sunk down to the threshold of the cave, burying face to arms and breathing deep of the dry soil beneath her wrists. and she laughed, a tiny, muffled sound, too pathetic in volume to carry far, fading beneath the weight of her own frustrated bitterness.
She slithered back into the dark hole, and Euryalos moved only to grab the rabbit and set it at the den’s mouth.
If she wants to go, Faustus, I will not keep her.
He murmured in an aside to the Roman, his eyes hard as they rested upon him.
That is not how things will be done here.
Andromache had assured him. He sat to the side of the den mouth, leaving a clear passage out if the ghost wished for it.
I will not force her to do anything, he retorts in a gritted whisper, eyes placid as the snip of ivory from the unknown guest causes him to take a step back. You are the one making assumptions.
Euryalos held no favor toward him, and that had been made clear in conversations prior. He often wonders why he allows the continued presence of him, in all his straight-laced bitterness; did nothing make him happy?
Someday he would quiver below the fist held over his big, blocky head, but today was not that day. See that she is comfortable. She has a friend in us.
And he would pester no more. If not held back, he would set his course for the stretch of silt that would one day, he thought, be known as the grand central hall.
they spoke. she had begun to grasp words here and there, but now silvertongue pushed their translations out of her head, shutting her eyes tightly. footsteps faded, and when she raised her muzzle, it was only she and the man who spoke no common. a blank stare drank him in; she looked toward the retreating frame of the other and her mouth thinned into a hard line. "where is andromache?" she asked of faustus, knowing he would not answer in a way easily understood.