Chapter 11.1 (When The Moons Come)

Author's Notes: 1,450 words.  I don't hate this?  The pacing and descriptions are decent, anyways.  I should tell chapters from Yorew's perspective more often.

Yorew had found himself little to do this evening, and had a single objective, so he resorted to strolling among the assorted tents that marked the small camp. It had been over a decade since he had last visited the Eferung Lake, when he had gone as part of a brief beach vacation to round out a formal visit to Wyandanch. He now found little reason to walk upon the same beach sands a short distance away, and ignored the distant sounds of lapping water – it was meaningless without the bright princess whose life he was sworn to oversee. Yorew was only distressed that he had two fists and one body with which to keep her safe.

Until this time, however, he had been unable to see her. Madeleine had worked to assure that the wound left from the arrow was as fully healed as it could be. As far as he could tell, the only major consequence was a limp, so he walked with a cane in hand. That feeling of weakness frightened him, but he was happy that Madeleine had seen to his care. She had seemed so confident and steadfast, even in an environment that he had feared and abhorred. Were it not for the sight of blood and bodies, he would have been more than happy to visit her again.

Nevertheless, his priority was still at the forefront of his mind, and he only glanced a few times to observe the last glimmers of sunlight as the sun descended in the direction of the Pillars, their bottoms partly blocked by the rolling hills that marked the Eimhin-Walenty border. Far ahead and to the right of him were the faint impression of the mountains of north-central Eimhin. He marveled at how quickly they had escaped that country, unfriendly as the landscape and people were.

The soldiers scattered around him, none of them wishing to stand in the way of a tall and imposing man, no matter how old or battered he looked. He stood out like a sore thumb, and so it wasn’t long that Jonathan, sans his bows and arrows, walked over. Yorew had not looked at him that extensively before, and he was surprised at how tall and gangly Jonathan was. Jonathan, in spite of his dirty appearance and tired expression, had that same admirable sense of speaking in few words and a penchant for calm faces. Under the circumstances, Yorew was content to respond to Jonathan’s question.

“You’re calm,” said Jonathan neutrally as he walked in pace with Yorew. Men and women saluted Jonathan, casting nervous glances towards Yorew.

“That is my job, yes,” said Yorew, looking up at the dispersing clouds in the sky.

Jonathan scratched his head, spilling dust over him. “Who are you?”

Caught off guard by the question, so that he was distracted enough to accidentally stumble over a box, Yorew pulled himself up with his cane as a soldier slid the box away, the former looking a little startled. “Hmm?”

Jonathan waited until Yorew stood up and they both resumed walking before he said, staring up at Yorew’s eyes, “What’s your story?”

“I am just a humble servant,” replied Yorew after a few moment’s pause, “do I need one?”

By now, Jonathan had taken the lead. Yorew reasoned that Jonathan had likely guessed where Yorew’s destination was. “You act like you’re…home,” said Jonathan, spacing his words out.

“I may be calm because I have nothing to fear, or only one detail to worry about,” said Yorew matter-of-factly. He wanted to sound as resolute and determined as he felt, though he was doubtful he was living up to such standards, especially with his limp.

Jonathan frowned, looking slightly frustrated. “Tell the truth,” he said as he squinted and turned about, searching the crowd of tents. “You can set camp?”

Yorew furrowed his brow and made his eyes look even deeper-set than they normally were. “I have had to assure that my King’s children could sleep properly in their tours of Exedor. You are observant, but what has happened in my past is inconsequential to you.”

As Jonathan quickened his pace and pointed to a distant green tent beside a pole with a blue-painted tip, he responded with, “A tent? Isn’t that lacking style…for a princess?”

Yorew made to respond, opening his mouth slightly, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Any response would either call into doubt his story or damage the reputation of his country, neither of which he found to be reasonable options. Besides, Jonathan had now found Latton, here wearing a gray cape and black trousers with a black shirt containing a red lapel. Jonathan and Latton greeted and bowed to each other respectfully.

“You remember him,” said Jonathan as he stepped aside and gestured to Yorew. The two old servants shook hands and nodded to each other.

Latton coughed twice, appearing anxious, and then said, “your lady is tired at the moment from an afternoon’s worth of exercise, but otherwise fine.”

Bowing courteously and then nodding, Yorew looked down at Latton and asked, “I hope that yours is doing fine. Has she been keeping herself well?”

In response, Latton shot a nervous look to Jonathan, raising an eyebrow. Jonathan stared between him and Yorew for a brief time before nodding and gesturing for the conversation to continue. Sighing, Latton said to Yorew, “Still quite in distress and struggling with her loss, I’m afraid. This young man here has attempted to console her, though it may be some time before she regains her stability enough to reclaim her position. Do keep the Princess of Exedor away from her in the meantime. Now, I hope you excuse me if I must leave, as I should like to head to her soldiers and dictate her commands, as well as do whatever else I need to do.”

“Go ahead,” said Jonathan in response. Latton bowed once more and walked away, allowing Jonathan and Yorew to proceed in peace towards the tent.

When they finally stepped into the small space that was Eremia’s, Yorew cast a glance at Jonathan and was slightly amused to see the latter’s expression of surprise. Jonathan had likely assumed that she would disobey his commands and simply not do the work, or run away. Eremia, true to her nature, had done neither, although the camp did not look professional. She was lying on her back in front of a pile of smoking wood, head resting a few inches away from an askew peg. The tent leaned to one side, and the objects within looked crammed together and haphazard. The ax had been driven into the ground – an intensely easy way to break it, Yorew thought – while the shovel was still stuck in a foot-deep, empty pit. A half-filled bucket of water had been placed neatly beside the fire. Naturally, it didn’t take more than a second’s staring to realize that Eremia was soaked.

Eremia propped her hands against the ground and pushed herself up, breathing heavily as Yorew walked around the fire and sat down on the burned grass to face her. Jonathan looked over the scene and nodded as Yorew wore the faintest of smiles on his face. After a few seconds, she, seemingly surprised by this amount of warmth from him, smiled weakly in response. However, she was too distracted by her own tired state, as demonstrated by the way her arms shook and Eremia rocked from side to side, head rolling slightly. Reaching for one of her hands, Yorew found it ice cold. His expression immediately turned worrisome.

“I feel faint,” she said, as Jonathan raised an eyebrow and walked over to her, holding onto her other hand. Seeing this, she tried to brush both hands aside, but even their weak grips proved much too strong for her. “I doubt this was wise,” Eremia whispered after a few more seconds, trying to move her arms and legs with little success. “What is wrong with me?”

Jonathan let go of her hand and stood up suddenly, waving his hands and shouting out, “Help! Help!” As other began to raise cries of alarm and the footsteps of soldiers and other individuals drew nearer, Yorew watched as Eremia began to fall back. Alarmed, he tried to heal Eremia, his hands glowing as he held hers. Her eyes, which had been closing but a moment ago, shot open. She jerked forward in alarm, flailing and accidentally striking Yorew in the chest. Ineffective, he nevertheless grabbed her arm in an effort to restrain her.

“Madam! Please, wake up!” said Yorew, betraying a piece of his western accent as Eremia lost her strength and fainted, collapsing on the ground.