Ory: (the gatherer)

His tone was tender, begging forgiveness for a wrong he had not committed–a wrong he’d only bore witness to. Still, he knew the hurt she was feeling in the depths of her soul. He, too, had felt that hurt. But, at least he was there to help her pick up the pieces. She would never be who she was before. A brokenness like that cannot be put back together whole.

“You will recover from this,” Ory put his arm around Pri’s shoulders, as if to keep her from jumping out of her own skin, “this will pass.”

“Recover?” Pri scoffed, glowering at the alter where the only man she had ever loved stood, “there is no recovery from a wound like this.”

Ory sighed, knowing he could not talk sense to her while her emotions ruled her mind. “Come, let’s make our leave before we are no longer able.”

Pri bowed her head and allowed her body to quietly heave in pain. She let Ory squeeze her shoulders and lead her through the crowd of strangers back into the waning sun.

Ory brought their horses from the stables and handed her a skeen of water from his pack. “Drink, you have lost more water from your eyes than you’ve had in a week.”

She scowled, but said nothing. She jerked the water from his calloused hands and drank a sip. “I can’t,” she whispered, “not yet, I’ll vom.”

Ory gathered what she meant through context and took the skeen back from her, sighing in worried annoyance. “More in an hour, you’ve no say,” he packed the water and they began their journey back home.