[ If Godfrey thinks she ought contribute to the making of their camp, he doesn't let it on.
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.
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meant to get to this way earlier, apologies....
Just as he doesn't let on if he knew to expect this sudden eruption from her. His knife stops, mid-rasp, on its way through this most recent round.
Godfrey witnesses it all in silence - the blade driving into her arm, the flash of fire carving through the grass, penning them in with a sharp, bright burning. The brief, black deafness that falls across them, as though the air grew too full for sound for a slim moment. The deathly exhalation. The overbearing heat.
The campfire stirs. Godfrey remains seated, and his knife travels no further through the vegetable in his hand.
The moment eases. The arcing fire dies to cinders, forming around them a black perimeter. The air smells hot, as Godfrey suspects it will for the night's remainder - beyond, perhaps. He is no expert on these teachings, but he knows enough to recognize what he's seen here; and though he can appreciate her effort, the livid pain she still appears blind to, he would have happily stood vigil instead of invited His presence to their campfire.
He lets the knife pass the rest of the way. The orange round drops into the pot. Godfrey thinks on her - her teachings, her age. She's young - no child, Gods willing. But she is no older than he, or so Godfrey feels assured. What must her life be comprised by, to come into such knowledge; worse, to take not even a moment to resort to it?
He cuts to the carrot's stem and drops it to the soil. Godfrey climbs to his feet and steps away in silence. He cleans his hands.
Shoulders a bag from his tent and walks toward Samarie's incline, lowering himself on one knee next to her, her wounded arm between them. ]
I don't know that you'll wish me to close the wound - though you need only ask if you do. But we ought at least see it cleaned and covered.