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‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’ Meghan stepped quietly up near to Nevtaliel’s side. She spoke in a low voice, not wanting to interrupt the talk between Haekánoion and Osmod. She reached out a hand as if to pluck at the Elven lady’s sleeve, then thought better of it. She did not wish to offend by placing her rough skinned, dirt-stained hand on the Elf-fabric.
‘My . . . friend . . . is very ill. Will you come see him first?’ Meghan motioned to where Brand lay. ‘He has a wound in his left shoulder, a deep wound from an Easterling’s blade. Leod has done as best he might with it. But still it festers and he’s run high fevers.’ She swallowed her fright that he might die, trying to give the Elvish healer a picture of how he had been and how he was now. ‘But he’s gone all cold now. And barely breathing. And where he used to open his eyes at times, now they are closed mostly.’ Her voice broke a little as she went on. ‘Sometimes they do flutter open . . . but it’s as if he stares far off to someplace I can’t see . . . someplace where I no longer am.’
‘Please . . . come see to him.’ Her hand reached out and briefly touched the Elvish woman’s arm.
‘Shall I fetch you something . . . warm water, clean rags? Whatever you might need, I can get them for you . . .’
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