Perchance to Dream? -ch3

 In shorter order than the stunned alchemist recovered from her utter shock, the not-so-very dead Dunmer flopped heavily backwards, thick skull meeting the forgiving wood floor with a muted thump.
   The long forgotten prayers that had come in spurts before, now flowed like magicka through her mind. She scrambled to her knees and without a look behind her, tore open the shack door and practically rolled down the steps into the dark misty morning.

Crouching, face towards the little strips of light that just peeked around the door's cracks, she waited on the defensive, chest and ribs contracting and expanding in held breaths.
No more sounds came.

 By now she knew that no skooma was master of this apparition. It wasn't even an apparition. That dead man just...re-animated! Her rational mind searched frantically for explanation, but none arrived.

 She had to go back in and...see. Glancing around she saw an old elegantly-shaped piece of driftwood that she had saved- just because.
Putting on a suit of bravery instead of armour, she seized the log and approached the door.
 "Only a god could have raised him," the thought hovered in her fore-mind. "Only a god..."
 Then, setting a hand on the loose handle, threw open the door and charged in, club held tightly in front of her.

Nothing moved, except for the flames of the candles as the sudden draft of air entered with her. The Dunmer lay very flat on his back, his head now turned to the side limply- not stiff anymore.
 
 But...his chest...
Her weapon thudded loudly to the floor.
 ...it was moving.

Rising and falling, almost...steadily, along with his abdomen. A black liquid began to trickle from the formerly dried gash in his throat and a line of it made its way on a bumpy path down his ribcage.

The next instant a mad clatter of ceramics and glasses, rustling of dried plants, tossing of books and other only somewhat breakable objects ensued.
"What did I do with that-" muttered the frantic searcher over and over again until a delighted squeal escaped her throat. "Got it!"
Next she scooped a flaky power, half-crushed, back into the mortar and set it hastily down beside the patient.
Taking a clay bowl and clean-ish towel, she plunged the former into a large urn of cool water and brought it, dripping, to her station.
 
By now the blood had begun to form little pools that seeped into the cracks of the floorboards.
  Deftly she spread a dusting of cream-coloured dried yarrow-blossom over his throat and lower chest, and with a moth's delicate touch swept the coagulate into his wounds.
 After dipping her finger tips in the water, she took up the thick bone needle and bit off a piece of gut twine.

This was definitely preferable to amputating a finger.
She took the surrounding purpled flesh on his jugular between her index finger and thumb, pinched it slightly together, and readied the needle.
 A hard gulp and a deep breath to steady her fingers, without a second thought she plunged the needle into the tender grey skin.
"Cloth...it's just cloth," she muttered under her breath, "Just like sewing up my shirt..."

Before she knew it, the tear in the 'cloth' was mended and she was tying up the knot. The coagulate mixture had worked masterfully on his throat, but a small dribble of gore crawled down his side, making the second one a little messier to sew up.
 Her fingers slipped on the needle, red in fiery Dunmer blood, and her stomach began to rise.
 
She was not a healer- just a self-taught experimenter of organic combinations...and a squeamish one, at that. She lived alone and preferred it that way. She alone was hard enough to take care of.
 But...he was her 'project' now. He had to make it; had to heal.

Thinking of having to- god's forbid- make conversation with him, however, made her jerk a little and feel a tad sicker. How terrifyingly unpleasant, she thought, but pushed onward, cleaning her fingers in the cloudy pink water.

The tips of his black moustache curled up ever so slightly, so that, even unconscious, he bore a teasing smirk. Just the sort of person that would make her feel very uncomfortable.
 Well, it wasn't as if she was going to let him die for that reason! She tied off the second and final thread, and relievedly went to find some (possibly) clean bandages.

 His chest still rose and fell calmly, the neat cross-stitches just under his ribcage stretching slightly and relaxing with his breath.

  By the end of the hour, the alchemist turned nurse had her patient swathed in linen and comfortably propped atop a few spare blankets and articles of dress.
 When at last her work was finished, she collapsed utterly exhausted in mind and body onto her hard bed, to sleep the better part of the day.
 Sleep and dream...

  As the meeting and introductions and explanations were inevitable, there was no real use dreading them- but that didn't stop a perturbed subconscience from tirelessly rolling over and over the many and increasingly odd possible turns of events.
He awoke suddenly and, seizing her, demanded why she had wounded him so. Or he could slowly awake and try to leave while she was gone and fall down the steps and she'd have to start over again. He might wake up and...not be able to speak because of his torn open throat.
 What if he tried to get over-cozy with her! She doubted it. He was a Dunmer.
More likely he'd attack her on sight, blaming her for his bad state and for robbing him. What if he didn't awake at all... Should she have left him alone? Whatever being reawakened him...maybe they would be angry...
 Soon she found herself apologizing, on her knees to a fiercely blazing white flame. It spoke in the same soundless words that heralded the dead Dunmer's transformation.
A strange, ethereal figure appeared and took her healed patient and began to strangle him with his fists.
"GHARTOK PADHOME..."
She watched helplessly, crying out for the god to have mercy. But the man kept choking and coughing. And kept coughing, only softly.
Wait.

She forced her eyes open and was greeted by sheets of golden sun of afternoon sifting through her house's boards, tiny flecks of dust fretting the air like stars.
But the coughing still continued.
 And then she remembered.
She threw off the bed sheets, coverlet and swamp-biter net and hauled herself out of bed all at once upon seeing her coughing company.

At least he was still alive, she sighed, as she poured small drops of a strong liquor between his lips to calm him. Working like a charm, it immediately stopped his hawking.

She leaned back on her heels and rubbed her eyes. He was infinitely more coloured now, or was it just the daylight? A soft lavender-pink tinged his cheeks and the tips of his bent, pointed ears. His skin was a suave mix of sky-blue and ashen grey with a deep slate-violet over the thinner-skinned areas.
Somehow he'd managed to pull of the majority of his coverings, revealing, rather blatantly and also in full light, a well-endowed pelvic region- the noticing of which caused the alchemist to curtly turn aside and begin scheming over breakfast.
Or luncheon. Whatever it was time for.

Ah, good! Some stale bread, just what sounded appetizing. With another sigh she crunched it up in a wooden bowl, after emptying the snail carcasses and chokeberry seeds. "I don't think those are poisonous..." she mused.
 A slight rise in the volume of his breathing made her turn, but it returned to normal soon after.
Before her eyes could wander any further, she forced them back to scanning the cluttered shelves and baskets for anything remotely edible.
Ah! Rolled wickwheat oats. Perfect.
She scooped a handful into her bowl with the bread crumbs and dried snail slime and added a little water. Cramming some candle sticks, a calcinator, some concentrated muck sponge juice, and a couple cypress knees onto three-fourths of the small, uneven-legged table, she seated herself to a meagre, bland meal.
And the recovering wounded just in the side glances of her watch.


 The wooden spoon scraped at the dregs of her make-do porridge and a distracted gaze turned repeatedly to the left and quickly back again. She uncorked a new bottle of shein and took a swig.

 A draught of air from under the door carried a few curled slough fern fronds across the thread-bare, faded rug, rolling all the way to the folds of crumpled cloth around his feet.
The bottle of shein was set down and she stood rapidly, leaving her stool to clatter behind her.
 
On one knee at the Dunmer's side, she pulled up the blanket, over his knees, over his hips, and up over the bandages on his midriff.
 As she gently set the hem down on his chest, it suddenly flew back up again and a strong hand grasped her wrist.
A channel of energy locked between the lava glow of his eyes and her wide greening-gold ones.
Questions too quickly multiplying to be answered racked both brains, and a mistrusting, startled wonder was felt so mutually neither were willing to make the first move.
Until he coughed.
With him momentarily distracted, she wrenched her arm out of his grip and shrunk back. But before she could speak, a toothy, crooked grin rippled his cheeks.

"Hello," came a deep, almost grunt-like voice, but with a certain rolling, ashy resonance that was disturbingly...irresistible.
 
And now the dead man was officially not dead and could speak. Relief battled for supremacy over her dread, and she continued to say nothing.

He turned his head stiffly to the side, taking in his surroundings, and then came back to his host.
"What have you been up to?" he asked coyly, glancing at the coverlets over his nearly nude body.

The fur on the back of her neck stood on end warningly, but she couldn't speak...or move farther away.
He laid his head back down, evidently still tired and pained. "Nothing you care to share with me, I see." Something akin to a shrug shifted his relaxed shoulders and his peaked brows raised a little, "Suit yourself."

 She knew well what he accused her of- though he didn't seem at all worried about it- but his unexpected easy manner threw her off entirely.
And it all came at once:

"Y-y-you were dead," she blurted out, stuttering, "I was out looking for p-plants and- and - like I always do- not bothering anyone- and I stepped on your body," she shuddered. "Y-you were, you were dead, alright! I- I have no idea why, but I- I drug you back her- I have no idea how! And- and- and," her fingers pushed through her mane like a windy wickwheat field, "And fire came and- no, not fire. I don't know. But you moved- and spoke and, and you weren't dead anymore. I...guess. I- you-" leaning forward a little, she squinted, "You are real, aren't you?"

For a good two minutes, Eol just gazed at her with a hazy, confused half-grin. His head hurt, not as much as his body though, but he seemed to have lost something. He couldn't think what.
 Was she on skooma? Or was he...
She was a Khajiit after all.
Then his brow lowered drastically, "Are you...Khajiit?"
 
Completely thrown off by his unapparent train of though, she hesitated for a moment. "W-well...yes."
 "But...no tail?" he asked curiosity.
She found herself smiling, until she realized that probably meant he'd found time to ogle her rear.
"Not all of us have tails," she informed him proudly, "Not that there's anything wrong with them, though."

Tails...but there was something wrong with them. He just couldn't remember what.
 "Tail or no tail," he drawled confidentially, "There's nothing wrong with you, Miss-?"

If her cheeks hadn't been covered with a silken soft, golden fur, he would've triumphantly seen her blush. "Amneris," she answered after regaining a little grasp of composure.
"Exotic," he purred back. "And...I have you to thank for healing me?"

That uncomfortable twitch took her again and she shifted her squatting weight. "No..."she said hesitatingly, "You...you can't heal a dead person."
"Ah, don't be so modest!" Eol laughed, trying to hide his own overwhelming confusion.
"No-" she broke in, "I mean it. I- I sewed you up, yes. After you were alive though. If you want the truth-" a deep breath settled her conscience, "I was going to use your 'parts' for experiments. Maybe. But you were dead!" She added a vehement ending.

Eol turned a little less grey and more white. "You didn't touch the treasure, did you?"
His hands moved lower beneath the blanket and he let out a long sigh of relief and pink touched his cheeks again. "Then I owe you...a lot." More implied meaning saturated his tone.
"No-"
"Yes, I do. And I'll give you...whatever I can."
"No, believe me-"
"Please!" the gravel in his voice turned to a very distant rumble of the Mountain.
She froze, but his look was all charm, "Thank you, Amneris."

Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Amneris eyed him carefully.
He didn't believe her. He was as disturbed as she was, probably, but dealing with it a hundred times better than she.
 The Dunmer watched her, too, and waited.
Finally, her own meagre confidence restored on seeing his wane, she said in a soft voice, accented by many years of living in the Southern island region.
 "You are wounded. On the throat and gut. I did my best to purge them and sew them up and bandage them. They should heal."
With slow movements the Dunmer felt around his body, grimaces betraying the pain and recognition.
Amneris measured her words carefully, hoping, possibly, to provide a clue, "I'd say...you were murdered."
"That would imply death, my dear," said he and winked playfully. "My- what a tale that would make. I could be famous...""

"Or...infamous?" she didn't even know why she said it. It just came out...
 But something was flammable, because only a second after a hot, wicked fire ignited in his Dunmer eyes, nostrils flared, all traces of a grin replaced by a hateful, vengeful bloodlust.
 "A tail..." he growled in Dunmeris.
This transformation chilled her to the bone and she got to her feet.

"D-do you remember?" her little voice quaivered.
"Yes," he said clearly, "Everything."
Trembling murderously, teeth clenched and grating, he threw off the blanket and began to engage his torso to raise himself.
"No!" she shrieked with a sudden burst of caring, "No, no, no! she dashed to his side, and, with a gentle, firm hand on his chest and the back of his head pushed him back down. "No, no, no, no. Not yet. You'll rip- everything! Then bleed to death- and waste everything I did. Please," she purred, finally giving in and stroking his soft, black mass of hair, "Please just lie still. Heal. Then can you go. Please..."
 
Her caress and voice worked entrancingly, and Eol found himself relaxing every muscle, (except for perhaps one), and closing his eyes to the musical whisper of her pleading.
"Very well," he sighed. "As long as you keep that up, I'm not going anywhere."

Again the heat surged to her cheeks, but she wouldn't let herself fall for this odd, should-be-dead, volatile Dunmer with a bad memory.
 "You should sleep," Amneris suggested hastily and stood up to fetch a cup of water.

Eol sighed as he watched her form move about the shack. He was too beat and torn for any love-making, anyways, though if she had asked, he probably would've given it a go.
He did feel tired... A yawn cracked his jaw with its robustness, and he shifted his head for comfort.
B'vehk, he couldn't even think straight!
His memory had begun to seep in like the fading light coming in through the cracks between the wood, but very sporadically.
"You said I spoke?" he asked her, just before drifting off. "What did I say?"
 
She pondered a moment, scratched her ear, "Something about...children... Strong children...or something. I can't remember."

Children?? Why children? He didn't even like children. They always came up with the most inexplicable questions...

 "Are you hungry?" Amneris asked while perusing a rustic drawer for better edibles, but no answer came. She turned to see her now-quiet companion lost in his own, skooma-less, dreamworld.
Pulling her braid over her shoulder and fingering it, Amneris mused to herself, "What a strange fellow..."
"I hope he stays," whispered the other side of her conscience.