The bowl in her hand looked pretty, beautiful in truth, overtime her skill with clay had grown, her brush strokes improved, and people actually bought what she made. As the days progressed since she had started at the pottery, Old Flo didn't need to watch over her shoulder as much, fewer pots thrown had to be mushed down to a lump and reformed because they were of ill shape, flowers painted actually could be distinguished from blobs to actual blooms. The mayors order was almost complete for his banquet and although the hour was late, the pottery had light enough to work by in the form of the oil lanterns scattered here and there. Flo was busy packing a wooden crate cushioned with straw, inside would be plates and platters, all set to be delivered to the most prestigious address in Bree.
The work was cathartic, it gave her focus. The past few days had been difficult, demons of the past consuming her thoughts, but more so worries of the future. Things were wrong, very, very wrong and she was trying to be sensible, to be like him, not allow her emotions to run away with her and to keep a level head, but the gnawing twist in the pit of her stomach would not cease. He looked like a walking corpse, pale, thin, the wretched smell of sour vomit in the air, she feared for him. His caretaker was not like her, no matter how much the young woman Alys would gush over the mans looks, his demeanor was not as Jackilyns would be, he was ridged, he seemed to lack the gentleness she wished to give. Though, she appreciated him, a man she did not know who would care for someone who was precious to her, care to the point he would turn people away from the Soothery to protect the healer, she was grateful for him. She did not know what to do other than work, other than to mask what she felt, to carry on as she thought the healer would wish. What did he wish? She hoped it was to live, to fight, to be stronger. She was not blind, it was not a simple illness. She also wished he felt the same conflicts, the same regrets, the same hopes, but she was wise to his ways and knew she was likely to never know, accepting how it was. She made a reluctant decision, mainly to appease his sentinel like friend, one she had made many times to the healer... to leave him...though on the proviso she would be informed on how he was. She should have been clearer, she did not want someone at her door with the announcement of his death.
Much had happened between them both, good and bad. Many, many mistakes were made, two young people fumbling in uncharted territory, one who found interaction to be difficult, learning every day like a child, the other who could be overbearing and highly emotional which undoubtedly made their union more than a little challenging. It hurt that those who knew this, her emotions toward him, would allow her to stumble into his current fate, without care for what they had shared, it hurt more that they did not see the bond she felt to him. Yes, she had made another choice not too terribly long ago, one she thought right at the time, to move on, to try and turn her heart elsewhere. Though her heart was split. The healer still lived there, for love cannot be easily gone, it cannot be cast out or brushed aside, yet she tried to force it out, allowing space for a bold hunter who clearly cared for her, clearly wished her, and although they could laugh, they could kiss, they could make plans for the days ahead, she felt guilt, she felt despair, she felt anger, anger toward all those who had shaped her path, including herself. She had given it time, now she felt time was her enemy.
There were cracks in the glaze of the bowl, yet it was still beautiful, even if not perfect. It was good enough.
