The silence in the village square stretched, thick with the scent of fear and damp earth. Villagers, caught between awe and terror, stared, their crude farming tools clutched like desperate talismans. Eleonoré, her radiant armor muted under the bruised sky, maintained an open posture, Aurené a small, bundled contradiction against her chest.
"Please," Eleonoré began, her voice soft yet carrying across the tense space. "We mean no harm. My child... she is hungry. And the lands we've traversed offer little succor." She gestured vaguely towards the dust-choked plains, hinting at the recent, unsettling tremor that had rattled their world.
A grizzled old woman, her face a web of deep wrinkles, squinted at Eleonoré, then at the infant. She nudged a younger, trembling man beside her with a surprisingly firm elbow. "They have a baby, foolish boy! Where's your hospitality?" Her voice was a dry, raspy cough. She turned to Eleonoré. "Come, Young Lady. There's a vacant croft near the well. Humble, but dry. And perhaps some goat's milk."
Relief, sharp and sudden, made Eleonoré's shoulders drop a fraction. "Thank you. Truly." She offered a genuine, weary smile. Augustus, a colossal silhouette of silent judgment behind her, watched the villagers. They dispersed slowly, their movements still hesitant, but the outright terror had receded, replaced by a cautious curiosity.
The croft was a small, mud-brick hut, smelling faintly of straw and dried herbs. A single, small window, covered by a rough hide, offered little light. Eleonoré placed Aurené gently on a mat, then rummaged through her pouch for the last of her charmed supplies.
The old woman returned, not alone this time, but with a few curious children peeking from behind her skirts. She carried a wooden bowl of fresh, frothy goat's milk and a piece of coarse, dark bread. "For the baby," she murmured, a hint of warmth in her voice, her eyes lingering on Aurené with a softened gaze.
Eleonoré accepted the provisions with a grateful nod. "This is a kindness we won't forget." She tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the milk, and offered it to Aurené. The infant, utterly unconcerned by the cosmic drama that had brought her here, accepted it with eager gurgles.
Augustus, who had remained silent in the doorway, his massive frame almost filling the entrance, shifted. His eyes, both now fully visible, fixed on the mundane act of feeding.
"Water. Clean," Eleonoré stated, her words clipped, knowing he would understand.
Without a word, Augustus turned, his vast form disappearing into the twilight. He returned minutes later, his void-forged gauntlets surprisingly carrying two brimming buckets of water from the communal well. He placed them down with barely a sound, the water unnaturally still, unspilled. Eleonoré offered him a brief, almost imperceptible nod. Their unspoken cooperation, born of necessity, was becoming fluid.
"The tremor," Eleonoré began, her voice low as she continued to feed Aurené. "Was it... common here?"
The old woman shook her head, her wrinkles deepening. "No. Not like that. Not... cosmic. We've felt the earth grumble before, but that was different. It felt like the world itself cried out." Her gaze darted to Augustus, then back to Eleonoré, a silent question in her eyes. "You two... you're not from around here."
"No," Eleonoré admitted, choosing her words carefully. "We are... travelers seeking peace." She felt Augustus's gaze on her, observing her careful diplomacy, perhaps even evaluating its efficiency. "This child... she needs a stable place. For a while."
"A stable place is what we have, mostly," the old woman sighed, settling onto a stool. "But that tremor... it's stirred things. Whispers from the deep places. Travelers coming through with strange tales." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You carry heavy burdens, Young lady. Heavier than simple travelers."
Eleonoré didn't deny it. "We all do, in our own way." She looked at Augustus. His armor, while less cumbersome now without the pauldrons and chest plate, was still an anomaly in the small hut. He sat with a quiet, immense power that made the very air seem denser around him.
"You're quite large for a traveler," the old woman remarked to Augustus, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. "And rather… solid."
Augustus merely inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment that was utterly devoid of human pleasantry. Eleonoré hid a small, exasperated smile. "He prefers to conserve words," she interjected. "And armor. It's... not ideal for small spaces." She gestured pointedly at the low ceiling.
Augustus, as if taking her subtle cue, reached for his gauntlets. With precise movements, he unfastened them, revealing the dark, void-woven fabric of his under-suit on his hands and forearms. Then, with a subtle shift of his weight, he released the heavy plating from his shins and thighs, leaving only the dark, tightly woven material that seemed to absorb what little light there was. He was still immense, still radiating an ancient power, but now he moved with an almost ethereal grace, his form less like a walking fortress and more like a being composed of pure shadow and formidable muscle. He was not exposed, but certainly less armored. Eleonoré observed him, a new layer of curiosity in her eyes. He had shed layers not just of armor, but of the impossible distance he usually maintained.
Aurené, nestled comfortably in the makeshift bed, cooed softly, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp a stray tendril of Eleonoré's hair. In this humble setting, amidst the scent of goat's milk and woodsmoke, she seemed utterly at peace, her nascent power resonating gently, unnoticed by the world outside. Her contentment, the simple act of her presence, seemed to subtly smooth the harsh edges of their unlikely shared life.
As night deepened, a faint chill seemed to permeate the small hut, despite the fire crackling softly in the hearth. It wasn't merely the cold of the night. Eleonoré felt it too—a subtle shiver down her spine, a prickling sensation that spoke of unseen eyes. From outside, hushed conversations drifted on the wind: murmurs of the 'great tremor' and strange, unsettling lights seen in the desolate wastes beyond the town. Augustus, seated by the doorway, his powerful form now less armored but no less vigilant, seemed to feel it too. His eyes narrowed slightly, sweeping the shadows outside. The town, while a refuge, felt fragile, and the vast, unknown forces that had shaken the earth lingered, a silent, unseen threat waiting beyond the glow of their fragile hearth. This peace was an illusion, a temporary lull before another storm.