Disparate Times

The sky was obscured by a dense arboreal canopy; the stars and full moon, in turn, were largely obscured by thick cloud cover.

Beneath it all she lay. Still. Ears imagined as twin vessels into which liquid sound would pour. The soundscape clicked and popped with the rustle of foliage and howled with the frigid winds. Beasts stalked prey; the insects sang paeans to would-be mates. Alien noises in an alien place.

The soft rasp of slumbering bodies also could be heard, plaintive and oddly comforting.

The darkness was receding now, and she turned her head, peering over at the Mitran. He had promised to be up for the final watch, a promise now as ethereal as his dreams. Not that it mattered. Unused to the nighttime cacophony of the Cimmerian lowlands, Axun had laid awake for most of the night, drifting in and out of fitful slumber. She had woken the bald pale-skin at one point, only to find him sound asleep again when next she woke.

She sat upright, a fumbling adjustment of her bedding furs providing an unwelcome whiff of the odor of a body stale. Little wonder these northerners bathe so very scarcely, she thought, peering reluctantly over at the winding stream that burbled cheerily past their chosen camp site - most assuredly freezing cold. She peered at the two again; the shaman slept heavily, used to the surrounds of his homeland. The Priest slept through anything, it seemed. Even the occasional wildlife attack.

She slipped away, vowing no longer than a few minutes in the chill.

* * *

He had woken up with fear and shame in his eyes. Fear was understandable; she had set her knee onto his chest in hopes of stifling the loudness of his inevitable panic. The shame was odd. He peered up at her, eyes wide, as if a denial of some sort was forthcoming. She hesitated at this behavior - impending danger momentarily forgotten - until at last his lips began to move.

"Shh!" she uttered harshly. "Ill-intent approaches." He recoiled, lips pursed. "Go to the peak," she said, with a slight jerk over her right shoulder.

All at once the emotional jumble faded, replaced with a thoughtful sort of confusion. His faced roiled; brows furrowed, lips parted then closed again, eyes peered curiously at her, as if hoping to divine an answer to some unspoken question. Her jaw clenched.

It was not that the Mitran was stupid. Often thoughtful and always dutiful, he nonetheless seemed ill at ease on the journey. Oftentimes she believed it was her presence that caused him consternation. Yet at other times the proximity to her person seemed pleasing to him. Perhaps he was celibate, and company such as hers was as alien to him as these lands were to her. But the constant need for clarification was less endearing.

Smothering his bewildered face with her palm, she leaned close. "Shut your damned mouth," she rasped, eyes narrowing. "The Shaman has gone ahead. He will find you, yes? Go." Sinewy archer's arms heaved briefly, enough to fling him stumbling and gasping indignantly in the direction of the mountains.

For the second time that morning she was still, leaning this time against the trunk of a tree, bowstring taut, peering into the gloom.