Eleanor forced her trembling legs to obey, pushing herself upright. Every muscle screamed in protest, a symphony of agony conducted by Annabeth Chase. She staggered towards the table, the scent of roasted meat and herbs almost painful in its temptation against the frozen air. She lowered herself into the chair with a barely suppressed groan.
Annabeth said nothing at first. She carved two generous slices from the roast cow and laid them neatly onto plates. With a soft pop, she uncorked a bottle of wine, filled two glasses with the dark, ruby liquid, and slid one across the table towards Eleanor. Against the pale wood, the wine gleamed like blood.
"Eat," Annabeth commanded… not unkindly, but with the same inexorable authority as her strikes. "Your body is broken. It requires fuel to mend itself."
