A Shadowsinger's Heart

Part 1 - Breakfast

Between the gentle moment of waking, the brief calm of consciousness and heavy-handed realisation is where the pain tends to strike. Sheer and demanding, the kind that forces a stifled shriek. The more she woke, the more the pain did too.

The birdsong was lush and loud, and the moss a tuneful mat of goose-feathered fronds. Green and red blurred into a dunnock's whittled song, as if the beauty of the morning sunshine needed any more of a serenade.

Her breaths were short, edging between the limits of pain-free movement. She didn't want to die, but here seemed more of a beautiful and poetic place than any other, and perhaps the peace of it would cancel out her naked, bound, bleeding night. This morning would make even the healthiest blessed to die.

Voices are much less welcoming to wake to compared to the tranquility of death.

She wasn't disappointed to have lived, but the agony of this survival made death seductive. He knew this too, as he lounged across from her, his paws crossed in such an indifferent manner, but he watched. Death does not wait for you, but rather lazily circles with a morbid curiosity the way vultures do upon sight of a lonely animal. He threw his nose into the air by the window, twitching, before rousing his angular body to a stand. With one last look, death's large round ears swiveled sideways and he padded silently out, dissolving as he went.

The bed was large. Luxuriously sized for one and more than comfortable for two – it was her first indication that she was somewhere of a wealthier disposition. The second was the height of the ceilings when she finally opened her eyes – twice the size of any she'd seen before with windows to rival those of glasshouses. Sitting up was arduous and slow, but she didn't need to in order to view the many adornments that hung the room: paintings, sculptures, fine fabrics and potted palms scattered in the light. Her eyes finally adjusted, albeit with a significant ache, but enough to see the city view that unfolded beyond the glass.

The pain accompanying her sharp gasp grounded her. The voices she had awoken to returned with footsteps and a gentle knock. She started, before realizing she was no longer naked but wearing silk pyjamas.

The women who entered wore sweet and open expressions on their faces, the kind that don't overly pity and instead fill with a cool relief. The blonde laid a tray of steaming tea and pastries on the table at the foot of the bed, looking at the bruised bundle of limbs before her with such tenderness. The brunette approached with some clothes folded over her arm, placed them beside and sat down in a chair opposite. The blond joined.

"The tea is still brewing, but it will be ready in a minute. It's chamomile, I hope that's alright."

Her eyes creased slightly. "I'm Mor, and this is Feyre."

The brunette smiled as she reassured "The clothes are some of mine, I have plenty here so you can keep them. "

Mor. Feyre. Fey-ruh. She turned the syllables over her tongue.

"What's your name?", Feyre asked in the gentle means by which one addresses a shy child.

Cridhe stilled, eyeing the women in front of her. Her ribs ground with apprehension – only a fool could trust without suspicion. The two shifted in the tangible pause, sharing glances as if they were a language.

"Cridhe."

She spoke quietly, turning to the food, before crumpling at the sharp reminder in her left side of the state her body was in.

Mor sprang towards the tray as Feyre helped Cridhe lie back onto the bed.

"Try not to move, your body still needs time to rest after the healer."