Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

One Billion Babies

GPS Location Error
Inertia Navigation System Offline
Unknown Shelter
TIME/DATE STAMP ERROR
Unknown Time

His hand were gentle on my skin as he bathed me. He'd helped me over to what I figured was a chamber pot, holding my hand as I squatted down and relieved my bladder and bowels. It hurt to defecate, but when I wiped I sniffed the cloth. It didn't smell like rotting blood, so I knew that my intestinal loops were intact.

It had been humiliated when he had made me put my hands on the wall, spread my legs, and had wiped me down again. Even more humiliating that he then started bathing me. His rough hands were surprisingly gentle as he rubbed the harsh lye soap in, then scrubbed my skin, then rinsed me with warm water that smelled of mint.

I listened for his steady breathing to change. To pick up. To get heavier.

It never did, and I wasn't sure if that was even worse.

He led me away from the wall after putting a heavy fur cloak around me. I clutched it closed tightly, strangely modest in front of a man I couldn't see. I expected him to lead me to the bed, but he led to me to a chair and had me sit down instead. I reached down and felt it, and was surprised.

It was a three legged stool, the tripod widening out, the ends of the lengths of wood tucked into pouches on the underside of the triangular piece of leather. My fingers could feel impressions and carvings in the leather, which told me he had worked long hours just on this stool.

I heard liquid being poured, then the clink of fired clay bowls, sealed with some kind of fire hardened resin, set in front of me. He took my right hand and moved it so I held the side of the bowl, then put the handle of a utensil in my hand. I moved my fingers and found out it was a wide spoon, made of some kind of beaten metal, set into a wooden handle. He set a cup, touching the bowl, that I could find. I sipped from it and tasted blackberry wine.

How long had he been here?

The stew was good. So thick it was almost goulash, with venison, potato, onion, and a few things I didn't recognize. He tapped the back of my hand with a small roll of bread, which I took, tore in half, and used to sop up the juices. The blackberry wine was sweet, cut with water, and went amazing with the thick stew and sour mash bread with goat butter smeared on it.

It was delicious.

Feral, wild tasting, but delicious.

How long had he been here?

I sat there, waiting, and heard the ring of steel on steel from another chamber. At first I was angry he didn't help me back to my bed. Then I just sat there, listening to the hypnotic sound of him working.

I wondered what he was making.

After awhile he came back in, helping me up, and led me back to my bed. He put his hand on my head, checking for fever, then opened the cloak and pushed me backwards. I felt his hands on either side of that wound on my belly, and felt his breath as he sniffed the wound. I was embarrassed, worried, and a little ashamed to have him sniffing that close to my crotch. I was one of those unlucky girls with a strong smelling cunt. Not a bad smell, just strong, and I knew he could smell it. He didn't react, though, just lightly sniffed around the wound. Satisfied, he smeared the wound with some kind of salve and urged me with pokes to lay back down.

When he changed the bandage on my eyes I realized I could see him. Well, not exactly. Just his shadow. He held my head and put the eyedrops in, then smeared the salve directly on my eyeballs before liberally coating my eyelids with it and wrapping the cheesecloth around my head.