𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

44 | Watchmen

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
W A T C H M E N

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The coarse drag of cloth against her brow causes her eyes to close.

"Forgive me, princess."

The young servant girl sits huddled before her, head bent back in quiet lament. She wipes carefully, her hands dainty and fluttering as they reach across Viserra's cheek. It has grown flushed with the effort, almost concealing the faint marks donning its surface—but not fully.

Viserra remains still, fingers clutched in her lap as she sits. Her demeanour is calm, almost statuesque, half-frozen in the shade-laden shadow of the tent they sit in. She breathes quietly, the rattle in her chest tempering somewhat, giving in to a solemn tranquillity.

Her hair hangs loose, locks of unkempt brown washing down her neck and shoulders. The servant girl lifts her hand and brushes away a few strands from Viserra's face, her touch careful, almost hesitant. The dampness of the cloth seethes against her skin, a cooling sensation.

She opens her eyes again, her gaze settling on the crouching figure before her. She observes the girl curiously, eyes trickling over her quiet, collected bearing. The servant dips the cloth into the basin beside her. The water runs clearly— a startling contrast from a few days earlier, when the water had been tinged pink, streaks of dried blood swirling faintly before sinking.

Viserra would like to bring her hand to her neck. She would like to draw her fingertips against the rugged edge of the scar that rues there. But perhaps she would find nothing. By the way the servant girl glances at her skin— her expression restful and serene— she assumes most markings from that night must have faded by now.

The cloth is dipped into water once more, before being gently pressed against her jaw. The touch is faint. Gentle like a petal against her.

"You needn't be so cautious," Viserra says quietly. "It doesn't hurt."

The girl hesitates for a brief second, hand pausing in the air as she glances up at her.

"Yes, princess." Her voice is soft, like the linen she wrings between her fingers. She draws the cloth back, dipping it into the basin again, slower this time. The water ripples quietly, disturbed only by her heedful motions.

Viserra tilts her chin, allowing her face to remain exposed, but her gaze has drifted past the girl, out toward the tent's open flap. Beyond it, the morning stirs. She can hear the distant murmur of men—guards, likely—speaking in low voices, the scrape of boot against gravel, the soft bleat of a tethered goat nearby.

There had been no talk of their excursion floating around the campgrounds since they returned, nor had much been said in regards to her and her disposition. Viserra has been mostly left alone, residing within the privacy of her tent, neither questioned nor approached.

Cregan, too, has said nothing. Has neither addressed nor spoken to her since their return to camp.

It pleases her somewhat, she thinks.

She does not wish to see him. She does not wish to be seen. It is always so strange, being watched by him; to be observed and scrutinised in such a close light. She'd rather not put herself through it once more.

Still, there also exists a hidden desire to be witnessed. For someone to take part in her undoing, whilst she remains indifferent to it all.

She secretly wishes the sight of her— though no longer as daunting as it once was— might disturb him, might bother him, might rattle his peace. Even if he has no peace.