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 Posted: Mon Sep 26, 2011 9:51 pm
Waking up is an odd sensation for Enola. It's more like slowly regaining his senses—what few and weak ones he has left, anyway—and as sight returns along with this consciousness, he awakens feeling... afraid. He had a strange dream. He never dreams. And as he stares up at the sky once again, the familiarity of it causes a sick roiling in his stomach. His stomach, suddenly the dream flashes vividly in his mind again and he almost fears what he will see if he lifts his head.
So he doesn't move. He remains lying on the stained forest floor, staring up at the sky between the treetops. He tries to make sense of all that he can remember, he tries to separate the dream from reality. Normally, Enola is used to losing track of time, and not just because herla don't have much of a concept of time in the first place. But it just feels wrong now, waking up so utterly exhausted after... what, exactly? How long?
This part of the forest is not as deep. He can still see the sky, after all. He wandered from the deeper parts, his home, to observe the fawns. All right, so far so good. And then he met Oiseau. Enola feels another wave of nausea. The dream invades his thoughts again and suddenly he feels stupid for this backtracking. He can confirm it so easily if he just looks—
With a hiss, Enola lurches backward, hitting a tree and curling up as his heart hammers in his chest. He sees the ground, stained and trampled with everything that happened in the dream. But worse than that, right across from him, beyond the mess marring the small clearing, under a tree just as he is...
He doesn't have to see himself to confirm the absolute worst of it. It certainly isn't Algernon's work, as much as Enola wishes the creepy-if-not-helpful mion had suddenly dropped in as he occasionally does, only to disappear for ages at a time again. Even Neal's crude, mocking voice ringing in his ears would be preferable company to the hind adjacent to him. He stares at her, feeling sick with the realization, wanting to stand up and run away and too weak to do so.
He can't see her eyes, but he knows she must be watching him. She stayed. She stayed and helped after—He knows she's been hurt, the dried blood on his sister's hoof is proof of that even if he can't see her wounds either, and he feels a surge of guilt from more than just the fact that he used the stolen legs for such an evil deed. But Enola does not dwell on the thought, once again so utterly intent on watching her every move, eyeless gaze fixed on Oiseau.
He feels trapped. She must know he's awake now, there's no faking it. And he doesn't trust he'll be able to stand, much less fight. In fact, Enola's fairly sure he never wants to fight again, what a guardiandamn mess, an embarrassment—he dry heaves, but recovers quickly enough to keep watching Oiseau.
She helped him. She could have left him to die, surely he would have. He wishes he did. Better than dealing with this, whatever this is. Does she expect something, now? Should she? Maybe that's why she... saved his life. Admitting it doesn't help Enola's sorry state. Maybe she helped him so he would be indebted. Did she expect him to be grateful?
Actually, Enola's not sure how he feels. He doesn't want to think about it, and he's more concerned about why. He's watching her, so confused when he thought he had her figured out. She's the most fearless of all stupidly brave herla he's met. And that scares him. She's still here, when she could have left after doing her job. Ah, that helps a little. Maybe she was just doing her job.
That doesn't explain why she stayed. He could have woken up alone, confused, just as sickened by the realization, but they could have parted ways both having learned their lessons. Surely she wouldn't go looking for him again, and he certainly wouldn't track her down. He wouldn't thank her, why would he? He wouldn't be grateful, right?
Enola doesn't understand anything anymore. He wants answers, but at the same time, fears them. He doesn't know what to do. His life was in Oiseau's hands, or hooves rather, and once again he finds himself waiting on her. Watching and waiting. Maybe he should speak up—what would he say? what could he, what should he say?—but he hopes she'll explain, even though he knows he'll scoff at her answer, or feel threatened, or sickened. Because he doesn't know what else to do.
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 8:04 pm
She can't remember if she fell asleep or not. She only remember's a dead silence to the surroundings. A dead silence except for the wind, the breeze, which provided a parting in the lack of noise. She never thought silence would be so quiet, for she thought she had grown used to it. She thought that silence was enough of a quelled symphony for her ears, but she realized that the silence was driving her mad in a case like this. She had listened to her breaths, to Enola's breaths, but the wind was something far different at a time like this, and she found solace in it's wake.
If her ears were not perked, she would not of heard the hiss and lurch from the hart in front of her, for her eyes were closed and she was not watching him. But she heard him and his frantic lurch, and her eyes shot open. Watching. A long gaze. A longing gaze, in a sense.
But she grimaces and snorts. Her legs twitch as she watches him. Watches how he says nothing, does not move, does not talk, only stares back. Her legs twitch again, and the pinch and tense with agony and she realizes how sore she is from the encounter. She figures she must of pulled muscles hardly used while she dodged the monsieur's onslaught, not to mention the mulled over burn on her foreleg and the gashes that stung.
She realizes she has not much to say either. She was only here to do her job, and then she would leave. She was only here to stay, and then once he proved himself 'okay', (If he could ever be so,), she would leave. Why wasn't she leaving. She does not want to ask him if he is okay, but she does not want to assume and to leave, and to leave him if he still seems to suffer from ailment.
The ailment's she could cure, anyway.
Her crimson coated aubergine hooves kick slightly and she gains footing. She sits up, then shakily rises to all fours. She wishes she didn't seem so shaken, but it was a fact she could not help. She pants from the effort, but only for a moment, and she realizes how weak she is making herself out too be. It was not like she was gravely injured, only enough to feel tired and sore. Yes, that was all. The toxic waste burn was a concern though, and she wondered what secondary effects it might have.
Quickly now, she grips her bag in her teeth.
She exhales deeply, then inhales deeply, the exhales again, struggling to keep the bag locked in her jaws grip. Her eyes look at the sight in front of her, the drying blood and the hart that produced it. She knew he was probably, most definitely from all the blood lost, from trampling his own entrails.
She had nothing more to say though while she watched him, and thinks about why she is watching him. There is no purpose. Was she expecting words? What words would she expect? There were none to expect. She did not expect thanks, threats, treaties or thoughts. She was a doctor, doing her job. A simple routine that took a different turn today.
She bows her head slightly, ridged with a mix of emotions between indignant sorrow and respectful passion. Her necklaces clatters, bones against bones. Some of it chips away and lands onto the floor, and she does not care, for it happens all the time.
She does not show reluctance when she turns, except for maybe the slow movement caused by the limp from her back leg. She shakes herself of any forest litter, and just as suddenly as the meeting happened. Just as suddenly as she had stopped by and attempted to converse with the hart, was she walking away a changed hind. Changed for the worse, or for the better?
Not even the most clear minded would know.
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Posted: Sun Oct 02, 2011 3:15 am
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