What I did for love

'.. sear his flesh and bone,' a lashing tongue from the deep whispered. 'Rabid mongrel. Ours. In line for the pyre. Ours,' said another. 'Decay, decay.' Other voices soon chimed in: overlapping with each other, stumbling over and merging with the seething remarks. 'Upon the brink of the abyss forevermore. Pull his innards out..' The natural carvings in the wood? They weren't carvings. 'Smite him. Smite this wicked - ' Multiple eyes now opened in the wood cracks, eerily stretched out, twisted, upside down or vertically aligned - some blinking slowly, others rapidly, but all had one all too obvious emotion in common: rage.


Gasping for air, he bolted upright, his heart still pounding in his throat. Slowly, the rest of his surroundings began to focus to their true shapes and colors. The first thing he noticed was that the carvings in the wood were just that: carvings. Secondly, he was lying in a bed. A very warm and comfortable bed - or perhaps it just seemed that way because it had been years since he had the luxury of sleeping in one. Where was his pendant? With a jolt of fear, his hands had automatically reached for the jewelry of Renestrae around his neck, but his fingers only clawed over his own bare skin. Crawford looked down to notice that it was indeed gone. He was also tucked in some kind of rejected, splashy psychedelic jester attire, but like for.. in bed. Or something. And he was drenched in cold sweat. Still a bit woozy, he allowed his gaze to wander. A bunch of throw pillows lay nicely arranged on accent benches. There were a lot of colorful drapes made from all kinds of fabrics, diffusing the sunlight to a soft, golden glow. Through specks of dust, he saw potted houseplants, baskets, cabinets, rugs, chaises, some dimmed pendant lights. All of it could be described as highly decorated; beautiful even.

Right now, all the vibrant colors did nothing more but give him a skull-splitting headache. What in Purgatory's name, even.. The furniture, this 'settlement' - for a lack of better word.. Some free-spirited bohemians had ceased their twig-twirling frolicking to pull him out of the mud, dress him up and probably soon came cartwheeling inside the wagon again, popping burning sage up his nostrils while whacking a tambourine. "Wonderful," he quietly muttered to himself. The man grumpily pulled the blankets high up to his chin, already angry with Renestrae, Odiria, Ashmoor and everyone and everything, that he was forced to make up some next escape plan already. It wasn't until now that he spotted her: the girl from the farm. Soon the memories from that last endeavour came pouring in, too. How she had saved him from certain death. How he had saved her, albeit not with the direct intention to do so, but simply to scavenge his eggs unbothered.

Behind his half-established blanket burrito, Crawford observed her, his head tilted to the side a bit. She was resting peacefully. Strands of dark brown hair framed her face, which was half tucked away in the cradling embrace of her arms. Had she been next to his side all this time? Not used to such acts of kindness at all, he pulled his gaze away from her again, by chance averting his attention to a silver platter close to him. Food? Immediately he launched his body toward it, stuffing cheese, bread and meat down his throat all at once like his life depended on it, chugging it down with large gulps of water that splattered all over his chest and bedside. Until he burst into loud wails of pain in his attempt to devour the hard apples with his bruised face.

The first light of dawn kissed the girl's face softly; rays veiling her in a tranquility she much deserved after yesterday's turmoil. He would have observed her a little while longer. If not for all the free, within-arm's-length food presented next to him. That was his plan: stuff mouth, munch and stare at her in confusion, while secretly - somewhere deep inside - allowing his unrest to be soothed by her appearance. Or was it something else that kept the shadows shifting in his eye corners at bay, the whispers silent? Because, for the first time in, well.. ever, it truly seemed peaceful. How strange to be able to describe it as such. Nothing had ever been peaceful in his life. A loud thump suddenly broke that pleasant stillness; loud enough to startle him, even through his own wails of pain. For a moment, she looked at him and he looked back, only to realize that.. She had fallen. Out of her chair. What a complete dunce. Who the hell fell like that? Yet, there was something in the brief exchange of bewilderment he couldn't quite place. The girl averted her gaze in embarrassment as she fixed up her chair, and he slumped back against the pillow, trying to wipe away the crusts of bread from his mouth corners. Not awkward at all. His brow knotted into a frown at the question of how he was feeling. "Like chickens violently shat on me all over," he groaned, painfully rubbing one of his cheekbones. Those feathered ladies sure got their revenge. And what did he get? Zero eggs, was what.

Crawford quietly watched her from the bed as she tended to his needs, leaving him alone for a while. While looking around for something to steal later, the smell of a minty, oily substance filled his crooked nose. He sneezed. Just now he realized his chest was bound in bandages, and that the smell wafted from his own skin from under his gypsy PJs. Not only was he put in bed attire; some healing hands had probably tended to his injuries prior. Meaning that they had seen it. All of it. How much his ribs and pelvis stuck out the height of the Ancient Mountains in the north; his sunk in stomach; his sickly pale skin; his discolored feet and hands, like his crappy blood flow couldn't reach those limbs. Even his mutilated ankle, causing his bird-like limp, had not been safe from prying eyes. The raven-haired man pursed his lips as he stiffly pulled down the hem of his outerwear under the blankets, the tip of his nose a bit flushed. Utter shame washed over him. He didn't like that. He didn't like that thought at all. It was vulnerable. Private. A dead give-away of his own poor status. These wayfarer healers, these vagrants - mustn't think they could lump him together with them.

She soon returned, but the grouchiness was still plastered over him. It didn't disappear when she started cutting apples for him all cutesy. He resistantly took the bite-sized piece of fruit with a look on his face like it was dipped in all of Odiria's common poisons one by one, even sniffing it in his cupped hands. Carefully he started nibbling on it with the good side of his jaw, although still eying the girl warily. The welcoming, fresh sourness was almost too much for his taste buds to handle. So much, in fact, it made his eyes a bit stingy. He hadn't had apple for so long.. Or, he thought that had to be the reason. And then - Renestrae have mercy - the apple pieces shot down the wrong way at her kindhearted remark of saving her life and he nearly died, again, in a coughing fit. "I- I wasn't-! I did not - woman, I was collecting eggs. Eggs." With flushed cheeks he averted his gaze. "And I wished to merrily continue doing so until I was hindered, so I - Saints, I just removed the hinder. 'The hell are you thinking!" She just happened to be there. Goodness hecking fuck. That was all there was to it. In a moment of silence, Crawford clenched his bandaged fists on his lap, bitterly staring at her from under the tufts of his exploded hairdo. Before he cast down his painfully softened gaze at the blankets, that was. Perhaps even a bit sad. Her neck.. it was bruised black and blue. "Why were you with that oaf in the first place?" he quietly asked in his best effort to not sound concerned.