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Honoroit stands nervously outside the door to the bath, a parcel in his hand and an uncomfortable shift in his stance. It takes him two tries to work up the courage to knock on the door. Once he does, there’s only a flat “enter.” in response. It’s… not what he expected, but it’s also not bad. Nor is it refusable.
He steps in, closing the door behind him, and determinedly avoiding looking at the occupied bathtub off to the side of the room. For decency’s sake. The steam of water that should have been filling the room earlier is gone by now. “Miss Ainsley,” he says. The parcel is held to show its existence. “The chirurgeon said you should use these if you’re to bathe. For the remaining bruising. I’ll leave them on the-”
“Bring ‘em here.” He can see her move, what’s probably an extended hand gesturing for him to deliver his cargo. Honoroit tries to ask if she’s sure she doesn’t mind the loss of modesty (she is a young woman, after all. Or, she looks like one), but Laurel cuts him off before he can manage more than a few syllables. “I don’t care if you see me naked, Honoroit. I’m not bloody any more, either.” Well. Ever capable of cutting to the chase of things.
She doesn’t strike him as an appearance to be nervous over when Honoroit concedes and properly hands over the medic’s salve, not like one of the noblewomen would be. She just looks quiet. Laurel is bruised, some jagged marks over her shoulders and back, the marks of recently-healed open injuries on the shoulder nearest him. It’s strange, in a way. The first time he’d seen her around a fight was at Cloudtop, when she’d been laughing wildly, his master Emmanellain carried under one arm like he’s a toy dog, seeming completely unbothered about the Vanu trying to kill all of them.
Then, she’d been more like something that was bright and sparkling, a flame in the sun. Now she reminds him more of an ember. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and the hand that isn't idly squishing the bag of medicine is holding a silver ring. Honoroit recognizes it. The signet that all members of House Fortemps are entitled to, marking them even afield as able to use their connection to the family.
It must have been Haurchefant’s. Probably Edmont gave it to her. Not like Haurchefant ever really carried it, but Honoroit understands the impulse from what little he knows. Looking at it reminds him of something, abruptly. “...Miss Ainsley?”
She looks up. It seems as if there’s a dull glow to her eyes. Honoroit desperately tries to act as if he doesn’t notice or, at least, isn’t unnerved by it. She waits quietly for him to carry on. It’s strange, it’s strange, this isn’t like her. Having Laurel’s undivided attention when he knows what he’s doing to ask only makes him more nervous.
Honoroit swallows and crouches down to be roughly on eye level with her. He uses it mainly to avoid having to make eye contact directly, simply feeling safer when he’s not literally looking down on her. “Are you—” No, not like that. “Emmanellain’s afraid of you,” he says instead.
There’s a sound of Laurel’s head shifting as she presumably looks at him curiously. “He’s a coward. But I wouldn’t harm him.”
“I think he knows. It’s just that… he’s heard too many rumors of you.” The House Fortemps ring glints in Laurel’s hand as she moves it idly. One of the rumors that stuck in Honoroit’s side because it annoyed him: that the adventurer was House Fortemps’ bastard son bringing home a rabid dog. Even when she was stalking through the house, trying not to drip blood (her own, or someone else’s?) on the floor, Alphinaud saying she should take solace in at least managing to kill a god, she did not seem mad .
She seemed more like: “There are people who have been saying you’re an incarnation of the Fury.” Honoroit says it in a hushed tone, as if there’s someone who would hear and punish him for heresy. As if Laurel herself might take affront. As if, and there is a small part of his mind that realizes this too is a fear, she’ll kill him if he finds out a secret.
Instead, she just laughs one single note. “Not the first time someone’s said that.”
Honoroit should have known better than to think he’d get a straight answer. He can try again. “Are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“No one who isn’t blessed should be able to win against the Heaven’s Ward knights.” And she survived at least twice.
“Hm.” The same humorless short laugh. “Well, I am going to slaughter them. They made me angry.” The bland matter-of-fact way she says it terrifies Honoroit more than any feat he’s heard tell of her performing. She doesn’t leave room for argument or doubt. Either she has to be the Fury, or the greatest sacrilege possible. Laurel smiles at Honoroit, reminding him abruptly of the way Emmanellain fiddles with a rosary recently. “So call me what you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”
The Fury looks away from him, back to the water before her, and Honoroit feels that he’s been released from an invisible grip. He stands up, unsure why he feels a little shaky. The quiet is uncomfortable only to him. Words fall without him thinking first. “The water’s cooled. I’ll bring—”
“No need.”
“The chirurgeon said heat would help with—”
“It’s fine.” Laurel slumps a little. “I’ll deal with it. Run along, and tell Emmanellain to stop praying after he sees me, will you?” He’s perfectly happy to follow that order.