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Were she so inclined, Kjarr could tell stories of the like you've never heard. Tales of the creation of mountains, the roars of wild beasts, the best and the worst of life. As much as she demures when the subject of her (Her) power is obliquely referred to by Enya, when in her domain, she (She) has abilities beyond what most residents of Kjerag could dream of.
Yet she finds herself about to be undone, by the tiniest — the tiniest — of things.
Kjarr bites her lip near to bleeding, keeping her head bowed and her gaze fixed on the ground.
“Your wisdom and guidance are known far beyond your borders,” drones the messenger, reading from a letter, though he seems a little nervous. His eyes flicker every so often up to the Saintess, seated at the head of the room. “And we hold your counsel in the highest regard.”
Suddenly, he's interrupted. Again.
The Saintess lets out a squeaky, high-pitched sneeze. Perhaps the third, or the fourth.
The room falls into silence. The messenger opens his mouth and closes it again. Enciodes, who had escorted the political visitor up Mount Karlan, shifts in his seat. His face is, as always, unreadable. His entourage isn't quite as good at hiding their expressions, and most of them shuffle around awkwardly.
Kjarr clasps her hands together and squeezes, hoping no one notices her shoulders are shaking.
Stuttering, the messenger continues. “G-Great Saintess, we seek to reaffirm our commitment to mutual understanding and cooperation—”
Enya sneezes again. Kjarr has been peeking at her out of the corner of her eye, and so she sees the Saintess's face scrunch up cutely, as the small noise escapes her with such great force that she jumps slightly in her seat. Heavens above, Kjarr might actually cry if she doesn't get out of there soon.
“Great Saintess,” says Enciodes carefully, “perhaps we should postpone the rest of this meeting to a later date…?”
“There is no need for that, Sir Enciodes,” says Enya sharply, but her tone is undermined by the fact that her voice is hoarse, and she sounds congested. She doesn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on the Kazimierz messenger. “Please continue.”
The messenger clears his throat, shifting in place, and then finishes reading off his welcome letter to the silence of the room. Enya breathes through her mouth. Quietly, but Kjarr can hear it from her position. She manages not to sneeze again for the rest of the welcome. Which is a couple of minutes.
Enciodes gives his own brief introduction and talks about the new partnership. Kjarr doesn't pay attention, instead looking at the light flush on Enya's pale face. Perhaps a normal person would feel concerned, distressed, even, at the sight of their charge — and, well, more than that — visibly ill, but Kjarr is mostly thinking of how those pink cheeks would look if she squished them together.
“Thank you for making the journey up Mount Karlan,” Enya is saying, “By Kjeragandr's generosity, you are welcome in— ah— achoo!”
Kjarr quietly takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly. She must. Not. Laugh.
Miraculously, the meeting drags itself to a close, and Kjarr is silent through the whole thing, respectfully attending at her Saintess' side. Enya stands and walks the messenger to the exit of the temple, and Enciodes begins to follow, but then stops and, checking to see that Enya does not notice him, turns around to approach Kjarr.
She raises a brow at him. The two do not often interact.
Enciodes says, “I hear that the pumpkins have been particularly delicious this season.” Then he swerves on his heel again and leaves.
Kjarr covers her mouth with her hand and closes her eyes, composing herself. No mercy, the universe has no mercy on her today.
Kjarr goes to the kitchen before she goes to Enya. The Saintess has retreated to her room now that the guests have all left, having a dinner reprieve before the evening rites begin. It's a bit of a shame, because Enya is probably petulant, and Kjarr maybe loves her most when she is petulant, when her mouth tightens in a tiny pout that makes her want to bite it, when she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. But she'll probably have calmed down by the time Kjarr arrives with dinner, so she contents herself with imagining it instead.
She sends another of the attendants off to check the larder for pumpkins, and finds the biggest knife they own. The original plan for dinner had been potato and leek, but, well, sometimes plans have to change.
When she finally brings a tray over to Enya's room, she finds her sitting at her desk, half asleep, her head propped up on one hand.
“Enya, dinner,” she calls out, walking over to her and carefully putting the tray down at the corner of the desk.
The Saintess startles, and then looks up, eyes wide for a moment before she realizes who it is. Then she relaxes, and before Kjarr can even say anything else she says, “I know, I know. You told me so. You don't have to say it.”
“I wasn't going to say it,” says Kjarr, reaching out to comb her fingers through Enya's thick hair, brushing it back in place.
“Yes, you were. It was so embarrassing,” Enya groans, and then sneezes, and then coughs, in quick succession. Kjarr finds herself smiling. “But what was I supposed to do? They made their way all the way up the mountain, and no one knew that I would wake up like this… is that pumpkin soup?”
“Mm,” Kjarr nods. “I heard the pumpkins were a good harvest this year.”
“How funny,” Enya murmurs. “When I was sick as a child… my aunt used to make me pumpkin soup when I was ill. Did you know that?”
“I am hardly omniscient,” Kjarr deftly evades the question, and pushes the bowl over in front of her. She stands at her side, still playing with Enya's hair, as she begins to eat, stopping every few moments to sniffle.
Now, Kjarr could make her better. It would be easy as a wish. But even if it makes her a terrible friend, maid and lover… well, she doesn't want to. At least not yet. She wants the opportunity to see Enya like this, and she wants the excuse to take care of her. And Enya would likely frown at the idea of her simply taking her illness away, anyway, thinking it not a worthy use of Her power, or something like that.
“You're getting worse,” she observes, reaching out to press the back of her fingers on Enya's cheeks, and then her forehead. “Warmer. You should lie down, my dear. The rites can be skipped one night.”
“They cannot,” says Enya, aghast. “I won't let a little cold stop me from my duties.”
“I'm certain that She would rather you rest up and get better, than go out in the cold while you're sick.”
“And Her people toil day and night for Her, regardless of sickness, why should I be any different?”
“Is that so? Where are these supposed sick workers, then?” Kjarr gives in to the impulse and takes Enya's face in her hands, one on each cheek. “Really now, does She need to send a divine omen to get you to go to bed?”
Oh, she's pouting. Kjarr squeezes her just a little, making Enya's forehead wrinkle in annoyance.
“Will you let me finish my soup?” she asks crossly, so Kjarr sighs and removes her hands. “And then I will go complete the evening rites.”
“At least do them inside.”
“Fine.”
Enya still has to go outside and walk a little further up the mountain to get to the separate enclosure where she'll perform her duties, so Kjarr dresses her up in her outdoor clothes as she usually does. Today she pays extra attention to any exposed skin, and pulls out a couple extra layers.
She looks all of a grumpy little bundle, wrapped up in an extra scarf, eyes heavy-lidded from fatigue. Kjarr leans in and presses kisses all over that flushed face, ignoring her protests to pull the scarf down just enough to expose her mouth, and kisses that too.
“You'll get sick!” Enya exclaims against her lips, but then relents and practically melts into her.
“I will not,” Kjarr says once she pulls back. “You don't have to worry about that, love.”
Enya eyes her suspiciously, but nods. “If you say so.”
“Go, then,” Kjarr says, amused. “Worship your goddess as the scriptures decree. And I shall be waiting for you, in your bed.”
The Saintess turns to give her a slightly scandalized look. “What?”
“You heard me.” She pushes Enya out the door. “Now go on. You don't want to keep Her waiting, after all.”
Enya scoffs. But before she pulls the scarf back up, Kjarr catches a hint of her smile.