Doshvin was only allowed to see the beaten, defeated form of Shaelee for a moment before master took her by the collar and began to drag her away. She took another couple glances away, grinning like a fool until she returned her attention to her master, who gave her a swift kick to keep her focused. It barely hurt her; She was just glad that master was with her now, and the pretty elf was left to his men. They were going to make her miserable, like they used to do to Doshvin back when she did not obey; back when she was stupid and fought against them. Now if any of her master's men touched her in such a way, she would welcome them, salivating like a dog, waiting to please. That is, if her master willed it.<br/><br/>It was another brutal march back to camp, but at least this time the sun wasn't beating down on them that hard, having retreated behind some clouds. Doshvin still felt sick again though, the duress of crawling combined with her mysterious illness making her throw up again whatever hadn't been heaved up before. She was shaking with weakness now, but she managed to muscle her way back to camp.<br/><br/>Here, she was permitted to rest and eat some, just enough to get some of her energy back. She felt so weak, weaker than usual. After she gobbled up the food they gave her, she felt sick again, and threw up once more. Unable to support her own weight, she rolled over onto her side, shivering with fever. "Doshvin can't..." She mumbled quietly as one of her master's men kicked her, barking at her to 'stand' again, in the way that Doshvin always 'stood': On her hands and knees, like an animal. "Doshvin need help..." She whimpered one last time before she fainted.<br/><br/><em>Though it was Doshvin, the broken elf slave who lived, it was still Makretia who slept at night. Driven out of her own mind, she found herself cornered in her own subconscious, and it was when she dreamed that she could come out and be aware.<br/><br/>When she realized who she was, what had happened to her, Makretia did not weep; She had never wept, because she was stronger and more stubborn than to surrender to her emotions. But she felt a crushing despair, and it almost floored her just as well.<br/><br/>Whenever she could think,, Makretia thought about Gorgamesh, her vile master. She hated him more than anything else; Where he was Doshvin's focus of all of her love, he was Makretia's focus of pure hatred. If she could gain control even for a second, she would find the nearest sharp object and jam it into his throat, for what he had done to her and her people. For tearing her away from the other person she thought about during these lucid moments: Aubron. Her husband, the only elf who had found a way through her fierce, stony exterior facade that she had built for herself. In a way, these were the only two men who had been able to tear down her emotional walls, one through force and brutality, and the other through love.<br/><br/>But now Makretia thought about another elf: The one that Doshvin had met today, a face and name that were familiar to Makretia. Shaelee, the healer. Aubron's sister, making her sister-in-law. Makretia understood that Doshvin was ill, weak, perhaps dying. If Makretia was going to have her revenge, she needed Shaelee's help. And she wanted to save Shaelee from suffering the fate of Dosvhin. No dignified elf deserved to live like Doshvin.</em><br/><br/>Rolling on her other side in her groggy state, Doshvin pathetically whimpered, "Shaelee," understanding her pain, and understanding her need for help, but nothing beyond that. She was Doshvin again, simple and dumb and servile.