He stabs out with an elbow, grabbing her chin, immobilising her entire body with just one feather touch on a pressure point.
Her lovely grey eyes spiral wide and she freezes. But she does not flinch.
“Think, woman!” he cries, panting as the wound breaks open again and bleeds, forcing too much orange-red into the nice puddle of colorful fabric goods she’s made into a bed for him. Then suddenly he is seething at silent space, remembering gentleness only when the first sob of many escapes her lips. She sags, a sack in his hand even as he loosens his grip on her jawbone.
“Might you a modicum of forgiveness, loyal my Mam… I have been ill for a long time and have just begun to recover. But I need to know what year you think it is. And after that I’ll sleep again. So please?” he whispers it, holding her against his own chest now as she shivers and trembles like new leaves on a winter tree.
“The last year of the Dark passed not two centuries ago, my poor master,” she squeaks, sniffling into his clothes as he pets her straggle-haired, balding pate.
“It is not, Mamlaurea. So much time has passed since your teleport failed to transmit and became stuck. It is the Restoration, now. The Dark Times have been gone for at least a millennia, and I…”
What is this now? No quivering lip, no shine of the eye rolling unconscious down a red, wrinkled cheek? Perhaps she is all right with it, then. She’s playing it stalwart, then… his shriveled old apple doll from the good old days.
“And you, my Lord?”