Chapter Text
“You served in the healer’s quarters from a young age.”
Loren watches Elenor blink—surprised, at the proclamation, at being addressed, those brown eyes parting—reluctant, from her leg, to find her own.
Her face is steel. (There is a frenzy — a stirring — heat; in the depths of her abdomen, whenever their eyes strike. And she cannot accept the weakness — the want… for the other’s voice….)
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods, hoping to mask the tremble of her throat as the elf’s hands, still; rest on top of her knee. “It is rare for someone found outside the Citadel to hold such an esteemed position.” It is absurd; by all counts. But, that only makes the feat more commanding. “The others looked to you as ‘head healer’, did they not?”
“Ah;” her second retracts a hand (the loss is immediate) to scratch at her cheek, smiling stiltedly, “perhaps, Breza oversold me at the time. There is an official, Amazon, head healer; I, simply, assisted her on the more urgent cases.”
Creased brows—it is too often, the other reducing her own ability. “I have never known Breza to exaggerate: If she claimed you were the primary source of healing in the Citadel’s clinic, then I am inclined to believe her.”
In all truth, she finds herself inspired; it is an appealing enough tale: effort, well-rewarded—no matter the lot of the recipient.
(Beneath, lies bias: attraction to a woman she finds, increasingly, remarkable… Beyond sound judgment.)
There is an added tug to the other’s lips: one she is all but too familiar with. “Speaking of Breza,” twinkling, amused eyes, “were you aware she possesses the cutest crush on you?”
“What?” It takes her completely by surprise. The captain of the guard? Her service was commendable, but the approach taken toward her queen’s disappearance, had been utterly lacking.
Elenor simply smirks. “It’s true. So much so, she’s determined to destroy what little life I have, because of it.” A sigh. “Well; you did say you had plenty of admirers…”
Her confusion only soars—but now, there is anger. “She takes it out on you?”
“I’m the competition.”
Loren’s eyes widen; her tongue is useless and slow. “I… That. Is preposterous.”
The elf nods, agreeing readily. “Believe me: I asserted the same — along with it not being such a terrible thing, being your third. Less likely to die by beheading.”
She finds her eyes narrowing—but it’s instinct—it lacks fervor, the idea, alone(Elenor and…), leaving her, shaken.
“I—wondered why she treated you so insolently, without cause…” the pieces fall into place, as she thinks back on past encounters; her features darken. “If she allows personal feelings to so mar her judgement, then I am only more certain I made the right choice.”
Elenor smiles (and it is the same frenzy…). “I will live up to those words.”
Loren shifts her gaze—hunts for anything not her—calling upon her breeding as Amazon royalty: strict and unyielding… before meeting their eyes, again. “Your role as a central healer.” The smile dims. “It could not have been a simple thing, learning such an art, so young—no matter how useful.”
"The same could be said of you and swordplay…" Loren bristles—an Amazon was born for the sword—the other insults her… Elenor looks to the distance, the other side of the tent; smiles(—and, she knows there was no intent). “It was not.” Those hands stir—as if reminded, resuming their evaluation. “But, the alternative was exceedingly worse. So I considered that motivation.” Fingers test the range of motion of her foot. “It also did not hurt that I was genuinely interested in such things—even at that age.”
“In herbs and poultices?” It is a strange interest for a child, no matter how one looked at it.
… A lag—a pause; there is no immediate answer. And the slight furrow in the other’s brow, tells, she’s delved something intimate.
There is a brief scrimmage in her mind — did she go too far? But she is of higher rank(But the other woman matters).
“My parents were murdered by orcs; before the Amazons rescued me.” Loren curbs the surprise at the sudden press (how long does it take, until a person can say that, in a single breath? More than once?)—forward; nods silently. “…I never felt as helpless as in that moment.” Elenor stares at a spot on her shin: seeing; not seeing. “The only thing that comes close…is not being able to quell my former mistress’ illness. That failing.” Another heavy pause; those dark brows pinch. “The thought of being able to prevent that from happening, again…” her lips, twitch at the corners — but it is so far from what was given, before—it feels like an imposter. “Maybe. A part of me thinks, it, atonement; knowing, my current self might possibly have been able to save them.”
“Elenor.” Brown eyes shift from her leg—to her. “Nothing worthy lies at the end of that path.”
A beat. A nod:
“Yes, mistress.”
The formality makes her wince.
Silence.
Loren bites her lip, watching the other woman slip back into the inscrutable mode of healer. “Elenor…”
“Ma’am?”
It is a swift, proper response, but the suddenness of it—the meet of their eyes—leaves her floundering; the name, so natural…she did not think of what would come, after.
“I—” her mouth wavers with failed words. “It was not my intention to upset you.”
“Another apology? I could get used to this…” She feels her temper flare — (how dare she?)—before, the elf smiles again, the softness, quelling her anger before it could even ignite. “There’s no need for you to worry about that.”
(Yet, she does)It is unnerving, the rush of relief, that fills her. “I see;” the ‘courtesy' is still foreign—she has never cared to be careful. “I. Have another question.”
“About my family?” A slow nod. “I don’t mind.”
“Before: you mentioned the importance of those bound to you by blood.” The other had disagreed at the time (a concept, with which, she is still unfamiliar—but she doesn’t hate it); claimed strength lied in familial bonds. “Do you… ‘miss them’?”
She realizes that she is only trespassing further, but cannot help but want to know. The concept… she recognizes it, peripherally — but parents offering their lives to protect offspring whom could not yet defend themselves; it was a good death.
One worthy of honor. Not grief.
“I think… I miss the idea of them.” There is a tearing bittersweet to her tone. “I wasn't old enough; to know anything else.”
“You have become strong, outside their influence.” The elf is a force to be reckoned with; she knows few as capable with bow and blade on the field of battle, and none she’d rather have at her side. “They would be proud.”
Another smile. “I still don’t think relying on others is weakness.” The motions pause. Elenor directs all focus to her. “You came to trust me; even when we barely knew each other. Even when I was a slave.” Loren feels the dip in her mood—synonymous with the derogatory term; a mixture of contempt and guilt (how long, since she used it?) that burns her throat. “That didn’t turn out too badly.”
“You were insufferable.” But there is a turn to her lips.
“I was your counterpoint.” A gentle rebuttal. “It’s a crucial job. When people saw the big Amazon with the scary glare, I was the plucky little elf who broke the ice with well timed quips — several, at which you laughed or smiled, by the way.”
She doesn’t counter—
She can’t.
The bond she formed with the other woman is a mutation—it was too quick; too expedient, how she came to rely on her. How, with every decision, she seeks the other’s opinion….
At first, she labeled it mere Circumstance: She was not used to the strange, bewildering customs of foreign lands, confounded with things she had never witnessed—let alone, imagined—and the elf was a thing, familiar. Known. A solitary link to home.
Until;
it became more common—(second nature), to glance behind; need and want for an assessment — a “counterpoint”:
‘What would Elenor think?’
‘How would Elenor handle this?’
‘Would Elenor - Approve?’
“…Ma’am?”
The voice jolts her; she looks up to see concerned brown orbs. “I. Have not had many confidants.” She has had none. There was always a stigma of vulnerability; there is always the difference in role: she is heir to the Citadel throne—she must be better; higher. “I, have, at times, wondered;” she swallows past memories; aches, “what it would be like. To have a companion of comparable standing.”
“You were lonely.”
The word causes her face to contort — as if she’s been slapped: a mechanism to what the entirety of her people, considered, ‘weakness’—before she bites her tongue.
…It isn’t an attack.
It’s: Elenor.
“I…” her jaw flexes, “Perhaps.”
Spit out like poison.
Elenor freezes; brows hiking to dusky bangs…before bowing. “I may overstep, Majesty; I know you have assured we were not friends.” Another wince; will she ever conquer this cowardice? “I will not forget our roles—my vow to serve. But.” Tightened fists; her shoulders square. “As your second: I want to be that person.” The elf braves the meet of their eyes. “For you to never know ‘lonely’, if I am near.”
Her hand is under the other’s chin(soft; electric) before she realizes it, propping her head. “Then address me by name.”
Please….
Those brown orbs widen: surprise — dart, back and forth, between her own; gauging. Assenting. “Loren…”
Reaction; her mind trembles…
Her free hand reaches—
Stops.
Shakes…
What is this sickness that claims her?
Is this what her mother felt—(is it weakness in the blood?) With the slave who strayed closest to her?
She is not naive. Affections, well, between those who spend time together; who enter battle together; bleed together…
(There are plenty of her companions whom she respects—)
But she’s never felt this.
This…
Madness…
Loren looks away — away from those eyes. It seems all too plausible—too effortless—inevitable… that she will lose to them;
Give this woman whatever she wants.
Her hand retracts:
“We will stop here. The hour grows late.” She manages it with a stern tone, but she is keenly aware that each session extends longer than the last.
(She wishes to talk to the woman for the sake of talking—
Ludicrous.)
“Understood.” Elenor bows; backs away to examine her leg. “It is healing well. The new salve seems to be working.” A smirk. “Soon, you will not need me at all.”
It is startling—the panic, that rises within, at the loss of something, she once, thoroughly dismissed. “There is still fatigue with long distances; I will have you come until I am satisfied.” (Was it convincing?)She crosses her arms. “I would not suffer such sessions, just to endure them anew.”
The smirk tempers, but the other woman still looks far too smug for her liking. “Very wise. You must have a wonderful healer.” Those eyes twinkle. “Loren.”
Heat. “Prepare yourself for today’s tasks, Elenor.”
Lingering mirth. “Ma’am.”