She sat there a while, in honest, stunned silence. The two of them were both patient, willingly at times slow, creatures and so nothing passed between them as nothing needing to. Eventually his hand moved from her head, calmly teasing out her feathers, before he leant back in his chair. He kept observing her, hands now raised to steeples, elbows resting on the arms of his seat. She, however, dropped her gaze, moving around slightly to focus instead on the narrow window before her.
It had been lighting their way this entire time, the soft, natural gleam coming from it. But the swooping folds of curtain that draped over it from ceiling to floor were half-lowered in any case. It meant that at a walking head height, even at Stare's smaller frame, one would not automatically notice the sweeping world beyond the window. Instead, one would only see a few metres of tiny stones and inches of of weeds.
Now, sitting, she could observe the land beyond. The space before her was the vast drive of the manor house, with a large curle of gravel making up a way for carriages and horses to maneouver. A small stone set perfectly in the centre of this fast rotunda and had a sundial rested atop, all made of a light beige marble. Beyond the gravel stretched grass, to unseen lengths beyond the side of the house, and to a limited degree at the direct opposite to the study window by a large, forest-green hedge. Situated in this mighty, ten-foot-tall border was a set of wrought iron gates, proudly standing, strong and resilient, that had stood the tests of a needy horse or two but would likely never need to bother with the trials of war.
A soft sigh emptied from her lungs and she looked down at her clawed hands, their curled digits a tangle of harm and protected strength. Carefully she blinked, thinking of everything that had led her here, and everything that had happened since. Especially today. Examining the creases and high places of her gnarled hands she imagined what life would have been had she stayed back as a karegeta back in her homeland but ...
That was not now. It was not today. It was not worth thinking about.
"Wine," Vitruvion softly ordered.
And Stare nodded, and stood. Moving over to the shelf where she had deposited the book, paper and pen, she went down to the bottom shelf and pushed past crumpled sheets before she found a small wine bottle plus a glass. Bending over, she picked it up, and without a word she uncorked it and poured the glass full of dark red liquid. Then she returned to him, her master and her god, and held out the single cup, offering it with a dulled look in her eyes.
Vitruvion smiled kindly, and leant to take the wine. Then he drank, and he paused.
And finally he spoke again.
"Thank you, my dear," he said. "Thank you."
