Ties That Bind

The Long Road pt. 1

The acolytes of Orian's temple set up a lavish breakfast in celebration of what they call Ofelia's rebirth. They say she is blessed and they brush their fingers against her shoulders when they pass by, as if some of her supposed good fortune will rub off on them. Ofelia thinks privately to herself that she will snap the forearm of the next person who touches her.

The table she sits before is full of food, all arranged in ceramic bowls of various colors and shapes. She's never been one to turn down food in the past. Currently, she lacks any appetite, but she fills her plate with food regardless, mostly because she knows she should. The food looks better than it tastes. Everything feels thick and gross in her mouth, but she eats because it gives her something to do.

Her hands shake.

Her hands shake as the peels off the skin of a small orange, juice running all over her fingers. Her hands shake as she cracks the shell of a soft boiled egg, as she brings it to her lips to bite into the outside, yolk jelly on the inside. Her hands shake as she spreads ginger pear jam onto a piece of lightly toasted bread. Her hands shake as she spoons fluffy rice into her mouth, tastes the whipped texture of eggs and the sweetness of the molasses. Her hands shake as she brings a cup of hot drink to her lips, as she wrinkles her nose when the bitter flavor of some sort of coffee hits her tongue.

A seemingly endless array of food is displayed on the table and if she were feeling better than she does, she would taste all of it. As it is, she is not consumed by that particular breed of hunger. Her blood boils. Her skin sizzles. Her breaths come short and uneven.

She is fight-ready, bruised, beaten. Her hands may tremble as if nervous, as if fearful. She tells herself this is the residue of the death state she was in for three days. She tells herself that though her hands may tremble, she could still snatch up a butter knife within a moment's notice and lunge forward across the table so that she could plunge it right into Shelagh's eye. Then, perhaps, she would smash a chair over Yaghed's skull, allowing her enough time to escape.

If she had somewhere to go- or had somewhere she wanted to go- she tells herself that she wouldn't hesitate. She tells herself she hesitates because of this, not because of the shaking in her body.

"I was the one who found you. Zimena had thrown you off the roof and left you there. I hadn't expected her to kill you, but I suppose it should have come as no surprise. Vulre's soldiers sacked Tal Moori. He did not come personally, but that made no difference. We are the only ones left," Shelagh says, as if Ofelia wanted to know, as if Ofelia would care.

Ofelia looks up, reaches for her cup of coffee. She takes a sip, fingers tightening around the handle. The drink has an earthy taste, granular. Whoever strained this did not do a good job.

"I got Yaghed to help me retrieve your body. It was his idea to come here," Shelagh goes on, as if Ofelia wanted to know. "We travelled almost four days to get here. There was a wretched smell the whole time, I'll have you know. We couldn't stay in an inn."

Ofelia blinks. Shelagh's lips purse.

"You should be grateful."

"Why would I be grateful?" Ofelia croaks. "I didn't want this. If you gave a shit about what I would want, you would know that."

"You don't know what you want," Shelagh responds mildly. She's drinking a tea that smells strongly of citrus. Ofelia wants to throw it in her face.

"I know I didn't want this. I lost and I paid the price. That's how it goes."

Yaghed looks funny, seated in the wicker chair next to Shelagh. Naturally, he is large, but he looks even bigger since the chair was not made to fit an orc of his size and stature. His blunt fingernail traces the carvings that wind around the edge of the table. His expression remains neutral, or neutral for Yaghed. Ofelia doubts he's changed all that much since she was eight. She wonders if all orcs are like Yaghed or if she just got unlucky coming across him.