by Nerina » Mon Dec 20, 2004 11:59 am
She had pulled Quentin's shirt tightly around herself, grateful for the added warmth and modesty it allowed. The gratefulness was tinged with bitter worry and guilt, however, so she couldn't truly enjoy the gift Quentin had given her. What in the name of all that was holy had been done to him? Shivering, she cowered in the shirt, her eyes on the ground and unable to seek her friend out.
She knew exactly what had been done to him. She wasn't a fool, and trying to play a fool's game of deluding herself wouldn't make events in the past change. He had obviously been tortured, just as the poor unfortunate souls she had heard the wailings of from the cells. Tortured as she had not been. It had been easy to believe that he had been treated as well as she had been if she ignored the sounds that she had heard from other prisoners. But seeing the scars on him, with her own eyes, had shattered any hopeful illusions she'd had that he had been treated well. It was no wonder he had attacked her in her cell. He had seen that she was not wounded as he had been and had to have assumed the worst about her. It was the only thing that made sense.
But he had given her his shirt. And if the small glimpse into his eyes that she had allowed herself, wasn't more hopeful delusion, he didn't hate her. He was worried about her, yes, but he didn't hate her. Biting her lip, she stood turning toward where he lay. It was time to put her childish fears behind her and face her friend. What could he do? Attack her again? The possibility that he might, caused her to mis-step slightly, but straightening her back she forced herself to take a few more steps toward him. And stopped.
Master Will was watching her with dangerously narrowed eyes. Standing as still as a deer caught in the sights of the hunter, she warily looked back. She had become used to his predatory glances and the way his eyes never actually met hers, making her feel like he was looking through her clothes and imagining all sorts of vile things. This time it felt as though he were imagining skinning her alive. Her skin prickled in fear. Skinning her alive, or skinning Quentin alive? Uneasily she watched as the slimy little man, turned his gaze on Quentin. The look of complete malice and hatred directed toward her sleeping friend, terrified her.
Finally, after a pointed amount of time, he turned his gaze back to Nerina. He didn't attempt to hide the jealousy or anger. When he stood and slowly walked to her, she couldn't move. He stood in front of her, close as a lover, his breath fanning over her ear and down her neck as he let one of his hands stroke lightly down one arm. His whisper echoed in her head like it had been shouted by an army.
You don't want to disturb him. He is sleeping. If you tire him, he might never wake up- and that would be a terrible calamity.
He took a step back, finally allowing her clean air to breath, but he wasn't finished. Running his hands up both of her arms to her shoulders, his fingers played with the collar of the shirt Quentin had given her. He then slowly loosened the ties, moving more slowly than needed, hands lingering where they shouldn't. She wanted to jerk away from him, but his mood seemed too dangerous- though, not toward her. Swallowing, she felt him pull the shirt off of her.
And I can't have you wearing this. There is no telling what kind of weapon you might hide under such volumes of clothing.
Grinning maliciously he wadded the shirt up and threw it at the fire. Stifling a gasp, she tried to grab it out- what if Quentin needed it later?- but strong arms had locked around her waist and kept her from injuring herself. She fought the grip, convinced Will had finally lost his fear of Lucena and was going to have his way, but then she heard Lucena's voice and Will's acerbic answer and knew that it was John that held her in place. John, who always treated her like a princess, even as he was holding her captive. She didn't have to fear John. Limply, she gave up her struggle and leaned back against the gentle giant.
Her eyes went back toward where Quentin lay. If he had heard any of what had occurred, he made no show of it. He still seemed to sleep peacefully. It was better that way. It was better if he didn't know. She would have to continue avoiding Quentin, and if he knew it was because she feared Master Will's jealousy of him, leading to his being harmed again- he would not allow her to do what she needed to do. Better he think she avoided him for some other reason. She felt helpless and unable to do anything for him, but she could do this. She could keep from drawing the weasel's ire onto him. No matter how much it hurt her.
When John finally released her, she sunk to the ground, drawing her legs up under her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs, hiding her face so that they couldn't see her crying. She was cold again. Cold and miserable. But at least she was alive. And Quentin was alive too. She'd do whatever it took to keep it that way.