11.7
Jewel was still feeling heavy this morning.
She was sleeping poorly, visions of men dressed in levy cloth maile little different than Rochford’s own caught briefly in the white glare of her Wyrmflame haunted her dreams.
The smell of petrichor and lightning mingling in the subtle hint of old dry ashbeds from long burnt out fires.
Whole men, trees and branches caught in sharp contrast against white and then washed away.
But all of that was not the worst, for beneath everything there was something that had been so profoundly present that Jewel had needed days to fully notice what it was.
A terrible, haunting keening yet ran through all of the world.
And now that she had fully acknowledged the
wail
that had never really fully stopped Jewel could not ignore it.
The world all around her quietly wept.
Soft enough she had not realized the mourning never ended since the battle but now it was undeniable.
A Weird was gone and though Jewel did not feel any less welcome by the stones and earth and trees all around her, they all
knew
she had done it.
It hurt
worse
for the
lack
of
malice
or even
disapproval
from the world.
Jewel had smelled hate.
She had smelled fear.
Anger and so much more.
There had never been such a thing felt against her from the world.
The other Wizards and their sorcery had instigated grumbles and even hints of genuine wroth and agitation. But Jewel’s memory held none of it directed at herself.
Yet the wind knew that there would never again be whispers spoken by the Weird of Fortress to it.
Although he rarely had before she could feel the dashed hope that he might.
The stones and wood were closer to him than that and they mourned in the dead heartwood of every tree that would never be known to him as timber and support.
Jewel was surrounded by a silent wailing and she’d not realized it.
It had been days and they were long distant from the place he fell.
But the world mourned for him in spite of the distance and time.
Something had been
taken
from it.
Yet in spite of how terribly and fully she could feel that it was by her act and hers alone, Jewel could not find a single mote of malice felt against her by anything.
Not among earth or soil.
Nor in the sky.
Not in the rain or water.
The stones had hated Fizzbunches more for
disturbing
their pain then they felt ill of her for
causing
it.
Everywhere she could feel the mourning for the one she had killed.
The gaping, sucking void of his absence.
And Jewel
knew
the world
understood
she had done it.
But it judged her not for this pain.
It accepted it was her will that took him from them.
Yet they sought no punishment or recompense from her for it.
And
that
made it
so much worse
.
It had been four days after the battle and two days on the march and still everything seemed to ache for want of someone that Jewel had not even known existed before the battle.
How could
everywhere
miss
The Weird Veoul of Fortresses
this
much?!
And now that she realized what she had felt, Jewel could not find the will to ignore it again.
This morning, instead of coming to breakfast, she had trudged out of her tent and sat down. Curled up with the much diminished herd of goats for griffon feed and stared at the stones and dirt in their pen.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from NovelFire. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Even the pebbles seemed to almost be crying for him.
Crying and at the same time somehow wishing her
well
, wishing her
comfort
.
It made her want to admonish them for their kindness.
But it was like how some village widows acted after the loss of their man or a child. They had eyes red raw with tears and yet they were all smiles for the surviving children and the others in the village.
All smiles and wishing them well even when you could smell and see the hurt and pain so full up inside them they could not stop it from leaking out.
Brimming up in the eyes and seeping out in the sweat.
A pain so deep and awful it could not be contained without breaking its vessel.
And
yet
they didn't want anyone to
worry
for their sake.
Didn't want
her
to worry for
them
.
Only Jewel had
murdered him
.
Slain him dead as sure as if she had bitten him in half with her jaws.
Which the pebbles acknowledged of course in their slow sleepy puppy like way, but she
certainly
must have had her
very good reasons
and they
understood
and
trusted
that she had to have it happen
don’t worry Jewel
.
Don’t mind that even the smallest pebbles felt cracked inside for his death. She must have had a
good
reason for it.
They would
make do
without.
Like this void in every blade of grass and breath of air was somehow only as inconvenient as a piece of bread she had eaten out of turn.
The pebbles didn't talk, they never really spoke. Jewel had oftentimes wished they would instead of this kind of fuzzy knowing she had of them.
Now she was glad there were not actual words of comfort bubbling up from the little sad stones.
She’d
thought
the
cry
had
ended
shortly after the battle.
If it had been an
actual
sound it would have.
There was only so quiet and small a sound
could
become.
But whatever the whispery words of the world were, they had no such limits. The stones did not
have
breath.
Their voice was not made with a
throat
.
Their pain could rise as high and spread as thin as anything in the world.
Would Jewel be hearing this pain slowly grow thinner and quieter forever?
Smithson was there now for some reason.
The goats were gone.
The camp was mostly packed up.
“Lady Jewel? Are... are you alright?”
A Weird was gone and Jewel could still hear everything screaming in a very tiny and sharp way for his absence.
How could she be alright?
“Lady Jewel?”
How could she have ever been alright and somehow ignored
this
?
A hand was on her trembling scales.
When did her hide start quaking like that? Rippling up and down her body in waves like ripples in a pond that somehow never ended.
A large hand that was warm as flesh could be was on her and had somehow stilled the shivers she never even realized were there.
It was warm but at once nothing really at all compared to the heat she could withstand.
What was the flesh of a man compared to the fires of an oven?
Jewel looked up from the weeping pebbles to find her Father.
Whose hand while warm now felt barely any different from ice.
He had pain and fear in his face. Felt for her
of course
.
Worry and comfort and love too in those eyes and in the scent of him.
But he could
not
understand
this
.
He did not know sorcery.
Had never felt the world or the life in it like Jewel had.
She needed to explain but who would know.
A Weird was gone-
“
Tsulogothulan
... F-father I need to speak to
Tsulogothulan”
She saw a wince, a pain there and deepened worry and fear. But he nodded.
“If that will help, I will see that they are fetched for you, we need to set out to scout, but you will walk with the Gryphon caravan today. Speak to the Wizard on the way if it will help.”
He paused, his hand still on her scales, feeling warm and full of life and barely different from dead ice.
“But if there is anything I can help you with, come talk with me. Your Father is no stranger to the
horror of war
.”
Then after a ruffle of her mane he was walking off to his duties, to ride Zephyrvam in the watch.
To fill in the gaps in their fliers that Jewel now
left
probably.
But he had
commanded
.
Jewel was a
Dutiful
Daughter.
She would trust him.
But for now she
needed
to talk to
someone
who could
understand
.