She inclines her head--he has already guessed it, at least partially, and that saves some time. The less she has to speak, the better, but the words are easier now. They flow like blood from a wound, a crack in a dam.
"The...Lord of the province. He commanded that they bar the gates and burn the boats," she explains quickly, "The river itself is large and deep, the current moves very fast. Even strong swimmers could not cross it without being washed downstream."
The heaviest part of her task had been setting the scene, describing the illness and the deaths. To think those over, to remind herself that it had happened, was a costly thing. To describe this...this worries her, it gnaws at her, but it does not devastate her. Her trembling calms but the set of her shoulders is sharper, more tense, as she continues.
"They stationed archers downstream, to shoot those who made the attempt. At first, they did not kill many people. When they set Arcote ablaze, that changed."
She can still recall the smell of it. That had been the very worst part. The fire and the terror had been awful, the most horrible sight she had ever seen. People were consumed as they fled their own burning homes, whole blocks and streets were cut off, trapped by burning rubble, and the fires gradually destroyed the very bridge that the city was built atop. It did not take long for Arcote to burn, it was a city of wood and plaster, but the smell as it did was so noxious she can nearly taste it from the memory alone.
"I don't even know how I intended to escape the flames, it was chaos, but I ran for the little docks from my home," she says, the account a little faster and her expression less removed as she becomes a presence in her own tale. Her brow furrows as she tries to remember, but everything in her mind is choking smoke and fire.
"I am not a strong swimmer, I can barely float, and there were no boats--I knew that. But as I ran I--"
Should she share his name? Would it matter? Not all priests know one another and, certainly, Adhemar would not know some boy from the far shores of Haugene.
"He was our Vicar," she finally answers his question. "He was terrified, stunned to silence and watching as the city burned. I had known him since he was a boy--I had no plan but I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him with me. He did not fight, he was barely aware we were moving. When we arrived at the water..."
Here she pauses and her expression becomes openly frustrated. Her hands finally release the bedframe and her gaze shifts from the space before her to her fingers. Her hands are pale, thin, and have new callouses. They do not have answers.
"I still don't know how I did it." There's a distant almost academic note to her voice then. The story becomes a blur, a haze of action and reaction, of flight and fear.
"I...lifted the river around us."
It had been something similar. Johanna remembers jumping in, taking the priest with her, and falling onto hard ground below. It was dark, then, and very cold, but it was not so different from running in the deep woods...except for the silence. The closeness of the sound. She was not scared of the water.
"We fell to the riverbed and the water closed overhead but it bent away as we walked. As I dragged that poor boy." She folds her hands before her and looks up at Adhemar again. Her expression is almost apologetic.
"I don't know how far we walked, but when we came up the bank, it was night and the fires of Arcote were distant. I was so tired, but we were finally free," she pauses and lets out a sharp breath, "and that boy drew my own knife on me and called me Profane."
no subject
"The...Lord of the province. He commanded that they bar the gates and burn the boats," she explains quickly, "The river itself is large and deep, the current moves very fast. Even strong swimmers could not cross it without being washed downstream."
The heaviest part of her task had been setting the scene, describing the illness and the deaths. To think those over, to remind herself that it had happened, was a costly thing. To describe this...this worries her, it gnaws at her, but it does not devastate her. Her trembling calms but the set of her shoulders is sharper, more tense, as she continues.
"They stationed archers downstream, to shoot those who made the attempt. At first, they did not kill many people. When they set Arcote ablaze, that changed."
She can still recall the smell of it. That had been the very worst part. The fire and the terror had been awful, the most horrible sight she had ever seen. People were consumed as they fled their own burning homes, whole blocks and streets were cut off, trapped by burning rubble, and the fires gradually destroyed the very bridge that the city was built atop. It did not take long for Arcote to burn, it was a city of wood and plaster, but the smell as it did was so noxious she can nearly taste it from the memory alone.
"I don't even know how I intended to escape the flames, it was chaos, but I ran for the little docks from my home," she says, the account a little faster and her expression less removed as she becomes a presence in her own tale. Her brow furrows as she tries to remember, but everything in her mind is choking smoke and fire.
"I am not a strong swimmer, I can barely float, and there were no boats--I knew that. But as I ran I--"
Should she share his name? Would it matter? Not all priests know one another and, certainly, Adhemar would not know some boy from the far shores of Haugene.
"He was our Vicar," she finally answers his question. "He was terrified, stunned to silence and watching as the city burned. I had known him since he was a boy--I had no plan but I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him with me. He did not fight, he was barely aware we were moving. When we arrived at the water..."
Here she pauses and her expression becomes openly frustrated. Her hands finally release the bedframe and her gaze shifts from the space before her to her fingers. Her hands are pale, thin, and have new callouses. They do not have answers.
"I still don't know how I did it." There's a distant almost academic note to her voice then. The story becomes a blur, a haze of action and reaction, of flight and fear.
"I...lifted the river around us."
It had been something similar. Johanna remembers jumping in, taking the priest with her, and falling onto hard ground below. It was dark, then, and very cold, but it was not so different from running in the deep woods...except for the silence. The closeness of the sound. She was not scared of the water.
"We fell to the riverbed and the water closed overhead but it bent away as we walked. As I dragged that poor boy." She folds her hands before her and looks up at Adhemar again. Her expression is almost apologetic.
"I don't know how far we walked, but when we came up the bank, it was night and the fires of Arcote were distant. I was so tired, but we were finally free," she pauses and lets out a sharp breath, "and that boy drew my own knife on me and called me Profane."