Vencian's breath came in bursts, the sound raw in his throat. His arms ached from the weight of the machete, the blade still slick in his grip. He stared down at his hands, at the trembling that wouldn't stop. The last few minutes existed like smudges in his mind. The fight. The blood. The sound of tearing. He couldn't tell which parts he remembered and which his mind filled in.
What did I do?
His body felt hollow. Each heartbeat struck dull against his chest. The smell of burnt soil still clung to him.
Then came her voice.
"Vencian," Quenya said from somewhere deep in his mind. The tone was softer than the usual sharp pulse she carried. "Are you stable again?"
He closed his eyes. The voice steadied him and reminded him he was still alive.
Stable? I don't know what that means anymore.
