A flush crept up Myra's neck and across her cheeks, her hand immediately withdrawing from Freya's hair as if burned. She hadn't intended to be so… forward, so lost in her admiration that she'd forgotten the purpose of her presence.
"I… I apologize, Freya," Myra stammered, her gaze dropping to the worn wooden floor of the shop. "I didn't mean to interrupt. You were just… you're very knowledgeable, and… beautiful. I was just… distracted for a moment." The words tumbled out, a jumbled confession of her captivated attention.
She looked back up at Freya, her emerald eyes filled with a mixture of embarrassment and genuine admiration.
"Please, continue. I do want to hear about the remedies, every detail. It's just… sometimes I forget how much you know, how different your existence is." Myra's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress, her earlier boldness replaced by a wave of self-consciousness. The casual touch had been a fleeting moment of human curiosity, a breach of the unspoken boundaries between them, and Freya's reaction had served as a sharp reminder of their vastly different worlds.
"Please, go on with the poultice. I won't interrupt again."
Freya regarded Myra with a piercing gaze, the annoyance in her crimson eyes slowly softening, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity. The girl's stammered apology and the surprisingly candid admission of admiration hung in the air. It was an unexpected reaction, a deviation from the fear and deference she usually elicited.
"Myra," Freya began, her voice thoughtful now, the earlier sharpness gone, "I have been… observing you during these past days. You come and go from my shop, you listen intently to the translations, you even offer small gestures of gratitude. Yet… there is something I find… perplexing."
She leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze unwavering. "Despite the fact that I have fed from you, that you have witnessed firsthand the nature of my existence, you do not seem to harbor the fear that most mortals display in my presence.
And now," she gestured subtly towards where Myra's hand had rested, "you even attempt to touch me with a… casual familiarity. Why is this, Myra? Why are you not afraid? Why this… unexpected lack of caution?"
Freya's question was not accusatory, but genuinely inquisitive. Centuries of existing on the fringes of the human world had conditioned her to expect a certain level of apprehension, if not outright terror. Myra's apparent lack of fear, coupled with her moments of open admiration, was an anomaly she found both intriguing and slightly unsettling.
It was a departure from the predictable patterns of mortal behavior, and Freya, in her long existence, had learned that deviations from the norm often held deeper, more significant meanings. She waited, her crimson eyes studying Myra intently, eager to understand the motivations behind this unusual mortal's surprisingly unafraid demeanor.
Myra looked up at Freya, her earlier embarrassment slowly receding as she considered the vampire's question. It was true; despite the inherent danger Freya represented, despite the intimate act of being fed upon, a constant, paralyzing fear hadn't taken root within her. There was a healthy dose of caution, a persistent awareness of Freya's power, but it wasn't the blind terror she imagined most would feel.
"I… I don't know entirely," Myra admitted, her brow furrowed in thought. "Perhaps… perhaps it's because you haven't given me a reason to be truly terrified. Yes, the feeding… it was strange and a little frightening, but you were… controlled. You didn't harm me more than necessary."
She hesitated, searching for the right words to articulate her complex feelings. "And you're helping me, Freya. You didn't have to translate this book. You could have just taken my blood and sent me away. But you've spent days poring over these pages, sharing your knowledge. That… that doesn't feel like the act of a monster."
Myra's gaze softened as she met Freya's crimson eyes. "Maybe it's also because… I see a sadness in you, sometimes. A weariness that comes with living for so long. You're powerful, yes, but you also seem… lonely. And despite everything, you've shown me kindness. Strange, unsettling kindness, perhaps, but kindness nonetheless."
She considered her impulsive touch, a faint blush returning to her cheeks. "As for touching your hair… that was… I don't know. A moment of foolish curiosity, I suppose. You're so different, so otherworldly. It was like… wanting to know if you were real, in a way. But it wasn't meant to be disrespectful."
Myra took a breath, her gaze becoming more direct. "Fear is a powerful thing, Freya, but it can also blind you. I need your help. My grandmother's life depends on it. And I can't let fear cloud my judgment or prevent me from accepting the assistance you're offering, even if our arrangement is… unconventional."
Freya listened intently, her crimson gaze unwavering as Myra spoke, her words a surprising blend of naivety and insightful observation. The young woman's lack of abject terror was indeed a curiosity, a divergence from the predictable fear she had come to expect from mortals. Myra's reasoning, however simplistic, held a kernel of truth that resonated within the ancient vampire.
"Lonely," Freya murmured, the word a soft whisper, almost to herself. It had been centuries since anyone had perceived her existence in such terms, beyond the envy or fear of her power. Weary, certainly. The endless expanse of time had a way of dulling the sharp edges of experience, leaving behind a quiet exhaustion. But lonely? That was a sentiment she had long since buried beneath layers of self-imposed isolation.
Myra's acknowledgment of her controlled feeding, her gratitude for the translation, and her perception of a hidden sadness – these were unexpected insights from one so young and seemingly vulnerable. It was a perspective that cut through the usual deference and apprehension, offering a glimpse of a connection she hadn't actively sought, yet found herself strangely… considering.
The explanation for the impulsive touch, a simple curiosity about her otherworldly nature, was equally disarming. It wasn't an act of defiance or disrespect, but rather a childlike wonder, a desire to bridge the vast chasm that separated their existences.
A faint smile, almost melancholic, touched Freya's lips. "Kindness," she echoed, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. Her actions were driven by a transactional agreement, a desire for sustenance in exchange for knowledge.
Yet, in the act of spending her time and energy on this translation, in the fleeting moments of… something else that had passed between them, perhaps a semblance of what mortals called kindness had indeed manifested.
"Fear can blind," Freya conceded, her gaze softening slightly. "That is a wisdom many mortals never learn. You, Myra, seem to possess a resilience, an… openness that is… unusual." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "Perhaps," she mused, her voice low and thoughtful, "it is not that you are not afraid, but that your need, your love for your grandmother, outweighs that fear. A powerful motivator, indeed." The lack of terror in Myra's eyes was still an anomaly, but her explanation offered a plausible, and surprisingly compelling, reason.
The dynamic between them continued to evolve, blurring the lines between predator and prey, benefactor and recipient, into something far more nuanced and intriguing.
A subtle furrow creased Freya's brow as she pondered Myra's words. The young woman's unexpected insights had stirred a ripple of self-reflection within the ancient vampire. While Myra grappled with her lack of fear, Freya found herself questioning her own motivations.
Why am I doing this? The thought echoed in the quiet corners of her mind. Yes, Myra's blood had proven to be unusually potent, a welcome deviation from the often-monotonous routine of her existence. The initial agreement was sustenance for knowledge, a straightforward transaction.
But as the days passed, as she poured over the ancient texts and shared their secrets with Myra, she couldn't deny that something had shifted.
She could have taken Myra's blood and offered a cursory summary of the book's contents. She could have easily dismissed the girl after fulfilling the bare minimum of their agreement. Yet, she had dedicated considerable time and effort to a meticulous translation, patiently explaining intricate details and answering Myra's earnest questions.
A flicker of a memory surfaced – the unexpected warmth of Myra's touch on her hair, the genuine gratitude in her emerald eyes, the almost innocent admiration she had expressed. These small moments, insignificant in the grand tapestry of Freya's long life, held a surprising weight.
Am I… enjoying her company? The thought was startling, almost absurd. Enjoyment was a frivolous emotion, one she had long relegated to the realm of fleeting mortal experiences. Yet, the silence of the shop was less oppressive when Myra was present. The earnestness of her pursuit of knowledge, the genuine concern for her village, even her occasional moments of awkwardness – they added an unexpected vibrancy to Freya's otherwise unchanging existence.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Freya's lips. Perhaps, in the endless monotony of her immortality, this unusual exchange with Myra had become… a diversion. A flicker of something novel in the predictable rhythm of her days.
The lines of their relationship were blurring, and Freya, for the first time in centuries, found herself intrigued by the direction they were taking. The transaction was evolving into something far more complex, and a part of her, a long-dormant part, found itself… anticipating what might come next.