Chapter Text
“Ma’am. I’ve arrived for your morning treatment.” A beat. Respectful. “May I enter?”
Elenor waits, as she always does, (a few paces away from the formidable flap of her mistress’ tent), cutting a persisting yawn, short, with the back of the hand not clutching her supplies. Their clandestine meets occur at the very hint of dawn—equal parts abject paranoia and obsession with privacy on her patient’s part—and she had miscalculated the effect of a designated watch so close to the hour of waking.
“You may.”
A terse, imposing tone.
She feels a shiver beyond the early morning chill.
Terror or Anticipation? The two always tangle in her throat.
The flap is peeled backward with halting, stumbling fingers—and she’s absorbed—the moment she ducks in, by the soft, salient coil of lavender. The tense muscles of her body relax and clench, a lost and gained tension—simultaneous(the properties of the plant? Or)her mistress reclined on a throne of pelts: armorless; a regal leg, made bare and presented.
“You’re,” Elenor blinks: the pose—the view, still moves her, “prepared…”
An imperial brow. “We have done this several times over; I believe it, the very least, to be prepared upon your arrival.” The Amazon raises her chin, features swiftly souring. “Is there a problem?”
“Ah — not at all.” What lies between—that her princess was ready because she looked forward to this: wanted a moment; another, just between them—is tucked away. Instead, the elf’s mouth turns. Moving further in. “I prefer it, in fact. Anything to avoid a repeat performance of my spectacular failure to catch you.”
The joke backfires. Serves only to remind her of the precarious position they found themselves in, a few short nights, before: the molding of chests; a knee grazing her mistress’ thigh;
vulnerable, blue eyes…
“You’re flushed.” (Instinct.) Her fingers already reach; press against the tender flesh of the other woman’s forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
Brows crinkle against her palm. “You are too forward.”
But, her hand isn’t removed.
Elenor reigns in a smirk; places her free hand over her own forehead and gauges. “Most, are, in my line of work. You would not believe the stubbornness of wounded Amazon warriors.” Both hands are retracted. “There is a princess, in particular…”
Loren scowls. “There were tales among my sisters, of a healer who remained unrelenting in her methods and instruction. Despite being a slave.” Soft (softer than it’s ever been)… Reluctant. As if the other wished to deny its truth; claim: ‘once, but not now’…. “Having the opportunity to experience it firsthand, I now know their frustrations.”
“But, you also know the results.” She kneels, an agile transition to access the supplies she set down earlier; loosens leather ties and unfurls the bundle of cloth. “I remember, well, the compliment I received from her Majesty, upon our first meeting.” A stock is taken of various ingredients, by touch, alone. “‘Competent’, I believe the word was.”
The Amazon glances away — and maybe she, too, thought on how long ago that seemed. “Do not let it go to your head.”
“Perish the thought.”
There is a huff of mild irritation (pride, than anything else) — and, it’s there, again: terror and anticipation. Perhaps, she is a masochist, being so casual with a member of royalty, even with her elevated position—becoming used to this feeling; tempting… that sharp, unerring line.
When they are alone, there is an ease; an intimacy, so fragile, she dares not lend it to words.
“Shall I begin?” A courtesy. One Elenor gives each time. A final due before her fingers touch her, again.
Blue orbs, more brilliant than sapphire, take her in: the look she can never decipher; the stare that sanctions lightening and heat and broken syllables…
“Yes.”
the column of her throat, trembles.
And Elenor has to restrain the shiver—subdue the tremor in her fingertips… hesitate. Reach—
Contact.
A shared exhalation — a shared relief…
(It does not lessen.)
Want. Made audible.
The Amazon sighs; shudders, with flickering, closed lids,
She has to look away
…Regain:
(a pinched lip)
Herself.
—Healer. She is a healer. She is a healer — and the leg before her requires her full diligence.
She will not lose another mistress to illness or injury.
Her hands (she is confident enough, now, to use both from the start), follow the habitual path up sun-kissed skin:
the slope of her foot; the arch of her heel;
the shallow dips of her ankle;
the sculpted swell of her calf;
Pressing and probing with practiced touches, to find where weakness lied.
A sharp inhalation.
“Did that hurt?” Elenor returns to the underside of her knee, lifts and tests the juncture warily; it is difficult to measure response, when closed eyes and pulled brows, were given from the beginning—she must rely on inquiry. “The area does appear slightly inflamed…”
“It’s fine.” Clenched teeth. “Move on.”
The command is ignored: a willful surge of magic is concentrated on the ligaments, the elf, once again, amazed the other could keep her regular pace with the sheer level of trauma. “While I do know how much you cherish these sessions, much of this could have been avoided if you had brought this to my attention, sooner.” A careful flex; another. “It is painful; watching you enduring this.”
Loren turns—features darkening… before facing her, proud obstinacy burning in her eyes. “I…” pursed lips, “apologize.”
The concession, (almost a hiss, but tamed to be more) hits her, as it always does—the same shock; the familiar awe—
Before:
Appreciation.
Warmth….
(Selfishness: where those apologies are only for her…)
Elenor nods, not trusting her voice to carry it. “I’m just as at fault. I suspected your leg hadn’t recovered after the fight in Hammerhands… but, my own lack of will, made me wait days before approaching you. I worried more on repercussions, than your well-being.” A self-depreciating smile; it a lapse of loyalty she doubts she’ll forgive any time soon. “Beyond that: this level of injury would not have occurred at all, if I had been more competent, at your side.”
“Enough.” She can only gape helplessly at the stern visage before her. “It is because you were at my side, that this is all the injury I harbor. It was… foolhardy to think I could charge the Keep, alone.” Hesitation—but she finds herself admiring her mistress, yet again: another show of willingness to concede a personal failing. “You reconcile my errs in judgment; and there is no greater confidence, in battle, than having you near.”
“You,” her lip quivers — and she feels the heat conquering her cheeks, “honor me, Majesty…”
Loren nods, as she did earlier (is her voice unreliable, as well?), and there is a softness… before, the unfortunate, unavoidable ‘Awkward’ that seems to find them, more and more, often — and Elenor reminds herself why she’s here.
“How is the salve working?” She(manages to curb the stammer)moves from her mistress’ knee, not satisfied, but knowing there, only so much time. “Any pain, afterwards? Discomfort?”
Silence. Then, “The pain has lessened. There is,” a tightened jaw; effort, “some fatigue and numbness. After walking extended periods.”
“Hm…” the elf’s middle finger and thumb actively survey the muscles of her thigh, “I’ll add something to increase blood flow. Maybe some ashwagandha, as well—that should help with the fatigue…” careful, precise movements; her mind whirs: more applicable plant variations; more effective shifts in dosage… Until she notices blue eyes upon her; an openly—rare—displayed crook of the lips.
A breath. “Ma’am?”
“I am unaccustomed to this side of you: serious; muttering, excitably, under your breath…” there is mirth—mirth—in her gaze, “To think, I would meet the master healer Breza spoke so highly of.” Elenor is dumbfounded; that smirk seems only to twitch with more satisfaction—before ebbing. “I do not need to be coddled. And I would have you waste no more time, on this, than absolutely necessary—not when you have your other duties.”
Ah. “It concerns you. I do not mind.”
There is a marked blink—a wavering of the lips—before the Amazon’s features hardened, once more. “My second-in-command—”
“Should be the most attentive.” A smile. Soft. “You trust your life to me on the field of battle—why, should you not, outside of it?” She is truly pushing her luck, interrupting her future queen's words as she did; her body dips in a slight bow. “My role is to make sure you are at your best. To protect you; even, if, from yourself.”
Loren swallows—looks away. Fingers gripping the fur beneath her.
The action almost
…submissive.
Elenor inhales — another arc of lightening.
…It felt, (more and more) her princess would acquiesce—where, once, she would be met with a cold, unyielding glare. An abrupt end to any discussion.
It—
Impertinent.
Surely,
Arrogance.
But. She feels a sense of power:
As if only her words hold sway….
“Where does it ail you most?” Elenor swallows thickly, not expecting the husky rasp that left her.
A hand is suddenly on top of her own, grasping — pulling, gently… to the side of her thigh.
“Here.”
Blue: Steady. Unblinking.
The elf’s fingers tremble—she cannot help it—(the smooth, lulling warmth threatens to consume her very mind) as she focuses, focuses—focuses, on calling healing magic.
Loren shudders before her, a low, keen sound (almost the very air), catching in her throat—
Her fingers arch, involuntarily,
A gasp.
Elenor retracts her hands, quickly — shifts several paces backward;
bows low.
“Forgive me, mistress: I’ve overlooked the time. The others will be waking soon.” A thin stream of sunlight pierces the tent’s floor in a brilliant, bold streak; she does not look up to see the expression on the Amazon’s face. “I believe that should be sufficient for today’s session. Please use the salve before putting on your armor; I will have an improved equivalent ready by the morrow.”
A striking silence.
Her heart pounds in her ears…
“Dismissed.”
Another bow—(she does not wait for anything more): Elenor gathers her supplies — stands to her feet — ignores the red; the glimpse of flushed, heated skin—before slipping from her mistress' tent without another word.