In his other hand was a fire-hardened
clay cup.
She sensed his eyes upon her, and looked up with the same open-faced
showing of subservience and unthinking trust with which she had always
looked to him before. Then her eyes fell, and she became as a downcast
wretch, a hag before her time, weeping uncontrollably on the dirty cot
before his compassionately kneeling figure.
Tears of shame fell from her closed eyelids, but she felt surprise as
she felt Habrunt's strong hand placed gently upon her shoulder, and
with his other hand, he held up the clay cup.
From the odor of it, she dimly perceived that it was simple herbal tea,
and not a powerful potion such as she had delivered to the Physician
earlier.
He placed it gently to her lips. From the feel of it's even warmth, she
sensed that he had warmed it a little, though not enough to be too much
for her. She let it's tasteless liquid slip through her feverish lips,
and could not discern it, either as warmth nor coolness. It was neither
sweet nor sour, and faintly but not unpleasantly bitter.
When she'd had a little, he removed the cup from her lips and set it
down on the earthen floor, already forgotten in the dark shadows
beneath the cot.
He remained frozen for a moment in the stillness of the deserted
bungalow.
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