- Messages
- 14
- Character Biography
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"Barely broke the skin?" Nath'iarra mumbled dubiously. She had seen the way his feet dragged on the road after that fight, the way his brow beaded with sweat -- and not the kind of good sweat that was earned by pushing boundaries or sweet exertions. This was a body's defense against an underhand weapon -- no self-improvement, no development, no honor, not even pleasure was taken from it. It was useless. But if that was how he wished to be perceived...
"As you say, Valgir."
It felt like a barb, but she did not speak of it. Instead she brooded silently, watching as he slaked himself on a swig from the earthen jug he had found like a treasure beneath the house. Perhaps there was more to it than pride and servitude. He had seen her order things of cruelty so casually as to be uttered in a throwaway line, like a breakfast order -- sometimes carried those orders out himself at her instruction -- because she was vindictive, because she was cruel, because she was frightened, because she was threatened, because she could. The not-quite-gentleness, the solicitousness she had offered him these last days must have rung hollow, for he had not experienced it before. Not for himself. Not for anyone else. His lived experience with Nath'iarra was the very worst of her -- of most people -- laid bare to him in much the same way the best of her had been moments before, shucking out of the dressing gown.
A disconnect. Probably sensible. Even Nath'iarra herself could not swear in the abyssal void of her soul whether she would have been showing him the tiny knot of good will she felt absent the circumstances. Were they still safe in her palace in the underrealm, would she have taken an interest in his hunger, his injury, or would she merely have expected him to show up in her bathing chamber because it was what she required?
Nath'iarra made a discontented sound as she dismissed these inconvenient hypotheticals. What did it matter now? That noise of discontent that started as a low growl resolved itself into a slow breath as he took hold of her ankle, tugging it toward him. She allowed her heel to rest against a pectoral as his thumbs probed the soles. Her feet -- like the rest of her -- felt bruised and angry and hurt. Her eyes half-lidded. "Quite," she said coolly. "The water is helping. And that." She wriggled her toes experimentally. "I don't know that they have two weeks or more of walking all day in them. They could become quite calloused."
Scarlet eyes lingered on grey ones as her voice adopted a teasing tone. "My condolences," she said.
Valgir
"As you say, Valgir."
It felt like a barb, but she did not speak of it. Instead she brooded silently, watching as he slaked himself on a swig from the earthen jug he had found like a treasure beneath the house. Perhaps there was more to it than pride and servitude. He had seen her order things of cruelty so casually as to be uttered in a throwaway line, like a breakfast order -- sometimes carried those orders out himself at her instruction -- because she was vindictive, because she was cruel, because she was frightened, because she was threatened, because she could. The not-quite-gentleness, the solicitousness she had offered him these last days must have rung hollow, for he had not experienced it before. Not for himself. Not for anyone else. His lived experience with Nath'iarra was the very worst of her -- of most people -- laid bare to him in much the same way the best of her had been moments before, shucking out of the dressing gown.
A disconnect. Probably sensible. Even Nath'iarra herself could not swear in the abyssal void of her soul whether she would have been showing him the tiny knot of good will she felt absent the circumstances. Were they still safe in her palace in the underrealm, would she have taken an interest in his hunger, his injury, or would she merely have expected him to show up in her bathing chamber because it was what she required?
Nath'iarra made a discontented sound as she dismissed these inconvenient hypotheticals. What did it matter now? That noise of discontent that started as a low growl resolved itself into a slow breath as he took hold of her ankle, tugging it toward him. She allowed her heel to rest against a pectoral as his thumbs probed the soles. Her feet -- like the rest of her -- felt bruised and angry and hurt. Her eyes half-lidded. "Quite," she said coolly. "The water is helping. And that." She wriggled her toes experimentally. "I don't know that they have two weeks or more of walking all day in them. They could become quite calloused."
Scarlet eyes lingered on grey ones as her voice adopted a teasing tone. "My condolences," she said.
Valgir
