Night Watch I: Eliza, Ward of Andrew

*Eliza's POV*

Andrew pointed towards a rather enormous structure. "That's my shelter," he said proudly. I nodded, impressed. I had heard the Wild Ones had more space, and so it made sense they might have larger living quarters.

I eyed a pile of vomit to the side of the entrance as we appraoched. Charming. "Do you live alone?" Andrew’s reaction was telling.

His face grew dark as he opened the door. "Yes, I do now. My partner was killed in a troll raid several years ago. They were trying to steal the Soul of the Forest." He held the door open for me, seemingly unawares or uncaring about the stomach contents by our feet. "Please, make yourself at home." Ah, so he was gay, and missed his lover. Perhaps he drowned his sorrows in drink. He sounded so heartsick! Poor man. I hoped, with time, I could convince him to vomit in an easily cleaned container.

Andrew rested his spear against the far wall, but did not unbuckle his scabbard. Smart man.
I took in his dwelling quickly; he was right to be proud. It had a large, metal washbasin, large enough to sit two, in the corner by a washstand, several pieces of wooden furniture, and a second area, through a partially closed door, that I could only see part of, which had puffy chairs. Andrew’s hammock, an open dresser, a rack for weapons, and a small desk were to the right of the door. It was obvious that was his living space. A large, neatly kept assortment of objects was stacked at the far end of the main room to the left. I knew better than to inquire about it.

"You have a very fine home, Andrew. May I use your washbasin?" Andrew turned a little pink.

"Um, yes, of course. I'll see if I can find something clean you can, ah, wear. Afterwards. I mean, I can't leave, you know." Andrew turned as scarlet as a migrating salmon and his bright, blue eyes were darting back and forth, inspecting the integrity of his floor.

Good fucking grief! I had forgotten how much shame some tribes attached to the naked body! Perhaps it was because I was a woman, and he was disgusted? That thought irritated me. I was no bigot, and I would not tolerate Andrew treating me differently just because I was female. I reminded myself to shove my damned twat in his face the next chance I got. There was no need to be afraid of the damned thing; it was just a body part.

Andrew started scurrying around, presumably trying to find me some clothes, looking everywhere but at me, as I peeled my filthy garments off. After my initial testiness, his discomfort at my nudity was the last thing on my mind. I figured Andrew could avert his eyes. I was still covered in grime and gore from a Night I didn't care to remember, and I longed to be clean.

I stepped into the washbasin and wetted a sponge. As I wiped the filth away, I discovered I was covered in more bruises and cuts than I could count.

I remembered grappling on the ground. I was losing. I felt a knee on my wing and it snapped under the impossible weight. I screamed. He laughed, thinking I had been crying out in pain. In the moment he had taken delight in my suffering, distracted, I had managed to drive my knife deep, deep into his gut, and then angled it upwards into his liver.

Having my wing broken had been agony. But I was not shouting out because of the hurt. I had been screaming in rage: that I might fail, that he might live to see another day, continue unchecked. He did not.

Blink.

"Are you ok?" Andrew stood a small distance away. His hand was close to his hilt, but his tone was not threatening. I thought I saw concern in his eyes.

I shrugged. "Can I help?" I shook my head. Touching though the offer was, there was nothing to be done. At least the boogeyman was dead. I stood there, half-washed, not caring about Andrew or his fucking tribe. I missed my family. I missed my few friends.

"Eliza, you really should finish washing, you've still got quite a bit of dirt-" I threw the sponge at Andrew and sat on the edge of the washbasin, hanging my head.

Notes

pimpin' Andrew: