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The final darkspawn dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, the boils of the blight now exploded around them. An eerie mist had settled across the land, faint screeches still echoing in the distance as the scent of blood and rot filled the air. The fighting from the recent days had been a welcome distraction after the impossible decisions she had been forced to make in the weeks prior. Save one life, but at the cost of another. Spare one, only to doom two. Stop a god, only to release wicked evil in the world. She was no stranger to killing - she was raised a crow from a young age after all, but this was different. Before, killing had a cost, a purpose. Never meaningless, necessarily, but this past month everything has changed. She was no leader, she never had been. She never made it to the higher ranks of the Antivan Crows, unlike Lucanis, and had made few friends in the order. She was good with her blades, quick and light on her feet with a talent for being able to seamlessly fit into any crowd. It had earned her a few good profiled jobs, but never enough to land her on any radar. And when she finally took charge to save life, she had only succeeded in angering the wrong people - her own people. Leaders were supposed to be forward-focused, direct, strong-willed, with clever minds and a confident voice. She wasn't that. She was young, quiet, never quite grew sure of herself in an environment where failure was a given. Perhaps less lives could have been lost if she had been better, or if someone else had been made to lead this little group of theirs.
“Rook?” A voice interrupted her thoughts, and she spun around to locate him.
“You`re bleeding, dear” A calm, collected Emmrich pointed out, politely gesturing to her body.
She glanced down at herself, suddenly flustered from this unwanted attention. He was right, though. They had barely stopped for a break today, their pace unforgiving in their chase for this particular area, and she had sought to quiet her mind in battle. It worked, it always did, but she had run out of potions hours ago and the heals coming from Emmrich and Harding had lessened - indicating they too were tired.
“We should head back to rest up,” Ilya said, her gaze finding Harding, who gave her a reaffirming nod.
She looked as tired as Ilya felt, but she seemed to be in good spirits still, a kind smile never far off. Harding hurried off a few paces ahead to gather the remaining loot, and Ilya followed behind. As soon as the adrenaline of the battle drained out of her she felt the familiar sensation of pain course through her body, and she flinched as she climbed a pair of steps towards the path. She was no stranger to pain, yet her wary body was unsure which problem to tackle first. The scrapes and bruises she had collected were no bother to her, but there was something wrong, something distinct. Her hand lightly brushed her lower stomach, just to the side, and it came back smeared in her blood. She cursed under her breath.
“We will have to take a look at that when we reach the Lighthouse,” Emmrich said softly from beside her. “It will not stand to have you get an infection, we must prevent that,”
Ilya shook her head, the brown locks dancing around her.
“I`m fine, really. Nothing to worry about,” She assured him, but the confidence of the fight had left her, and her voice came out a tad too high-pitched, a light blush creeping up her cheeks.
He was watching her closely, his brows furrowed, and his gentle eyes were laced with concern, but he dropped the subject for the time being.
The lighthouse was indeed welcome when they stumbled into the main entrance, dropping their packs by the door and leaving mud-caked boots strewn in the entryway. Emmrich neatly put his on the shelf, beating Harding to hers, but Ilya had no mind for them as she stumbled further. She had one mission; get to her room so she could fall apart in peace, where no one could see her. The wound was perhaps more serious than she dared admit, and although it would not kill her it would cause her some trouble. She felt light-headed and nauseous, a wicked result of blood loss, hunger and lack of sleep. Her vision was blurry, but she had gotten familiar with the Lighthouse and knew the path to her room, and the banister of the stairs offered welcome support. Then there was a light touch at her shoulder, enough to send shivers down her spine, and she instantly knew Emmrich had followed her. He didn't need to see her like this, a broken and bruised version of herself, barely able to stand after battle. That was hardly the image of a good leader they would follow to their death. She gritted her teeth, meaning to keep walking, but he had someone maneuvered her free arm around his shoulder and was now hauling her up the stairs. Embarrassment crept through her, and her body seemed to forget it was weary, injured and trying not to throw up, because it became acutely aware of the handsome man she had been secretly crushing her now dragging her up the stairs. Not towards her chambers, but his. It was dreadful. Mortifying, actually.
“Come, we`ll get you all patched up, no need to worry at all, darling,” He muttered softly.
If he was winded from practically carrying her up the stairs, he must put in a great deal of effort to hide it. He was tall, but lean, and while he had a great advantage on her in height, her figure was all curves and soft edges. Made for dancing with blades - not for being carried by polite gentlemen.
“Emmrich,” She sighed. “I`m fine,”
“You say that, but you`re also leaving a crimson trail wherever you walk. I must ask you to let me take a look, if only to ease my worried mind,” He responded smoothly.
They had already reached his chambers, and arguing would do her little good.
“Manfred, would you fetch my kit, some rags and some lukewarm water, please. And put on the kettle, if you will,” He ushered her into his chamber and gently put her down on a velvet bench, making sure the pillow was positioned comfortably behind her back.
Manfred returned a moment later with the items he had requested, putting them down with a series of hisses.
“Thank you, Manfred,” Emmrich said. “Now, let's take a look. You need not worry, most likely it is but a simple healing spell after we have cleaned the wound. Worst case we will need to stitch it up, but I have a steady hand, I can assure you,”
He was focused, rummaging through his kit and placing everything in a neat row. He looked handsome as he worked, his grey hair usually always so neatly combed back now coming undone. Lines crinkled by his eyes as he hummed to himself, his brown eyes speckled with green and gold. She wasn't sure exactly how old he was, hadn't dared to ask - mostly because this was the most poised conversation she had with him to date. It was kind of a relief not being an awkward and spluttering fool, but he had always been kind to her.
“Emmrich, you do not need to make a fuss. I don`t want to be a bother, I assure you I have been struck with much worse. We`re all just tired and hungry and need to rest,”
He smiled at her then, and her stomach did a funny little leap. Perhaps there was still time to be an awkward and spluttering fool after all. He met her gaze, eyes softening even more, and she was mesmerized by their debt, their compassion, their kindness. Ilya didn't think it was possible to be so gentle, so kind, but he had proved her wrong.
“It is no bother at all, my lady,” No one had ever called her my lady except for him. “Now, I must ask you to remove your coat and shirt if you`re comfortable. I`m afraid its already been torn to pieces, but I need to get a clearer view,”
The shyness was abrupt, but expected, her skin flaming hot as her gaze darted from his. Still, she shed her coat and the white linen shirt, leaving her only in a thin-strapped top. She had the urge to cover up, but knew that he was just being kind in helping her and tried to remind herself not to make it weird. He didn't view her like that, after all. As he gave the ruined shirt to Manfred and urged her to lean back, he examined the wound on her side. The makeshift bandage she had tied around it was filthy, and probably didn't help much, but he did not comment negatively on it as he removed it. He worked efficiently as he cleaned the wound with the warm water, soaking some cloth with scented balm and covering her side with it. Yet she noticed some hesitation in his touches, almost as if he was afraid to touch her. She mulled over that for a moment, before deciding she could not bear the now charged silence any longer.
“So, do you patch up many ladies after daunting battles in the blighted wilderness?” Ilya intended for it to come off smooth, funny perhaps, but it came out in a low whisper.
He chuckled lightly at that, and this time his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It seemed almost intentional, his movement too precise and practiced for such a miss.
“Such services are reserved just for you, dear. I mostly deal with the dead, as you know. The odd stitching job here and there, when in need, but I cannot say it has ever been a beautiful young lady,” He mused, and she wasn't sure if it was a play of light or if there was a hint of a blush on his cheeks too. That gave her a hint of confidence, or perhaps it was the bloodloss.
“You are the only one who has referred to me as that, you know. My lady. Why?” She asked him.
There was a faint stinging in her side, before he muttered some words and it eased the discomfort. A healing spell.
“Why no one has referred to you as my lady?” He asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
She laughed at that, utterly charmed by him. She didn't want to be a bother, but his affection and attention was… welcome. Addicting, almost.
“Why you do,” She clarified, voice trembling. “I am no lady,”
He tilted his head, pausing his work to regard her. For a moment his gaze wanders from hers and down her face, to her collarbones, to her cleavage, like a caress. Then he seemingly caught himself, smiling sheepishly.
“But you are, rook. And you deserve to be treated when you are injured. There is no rulebook that says leaders cannot receive medical assistance when in need,” He told her kindly, but firmly - as if he had read her thoughts.
She sighed, leaning back onto the pillows and dropping her head. She had no good response to that, and therefore chose a silence that dragged on.
“All done, Emmrich stated as he secured a piece of bandage before admiring his work.
No, admiring her. He traced the outlines of the white cloth, before he found skin in his path, stroking lightly, almost absentmindedly. “You take care of everyone else, always catching any hints that something is amiss in any conversation, ready to help or aid or support any of us. But we want to be there for you as well. At least I do,”
Ilya was surprised by his tenderness, and now it was his turn to be bashful. On a whim she reached out for him, brushing his hand with hers. He smiled at that, interlacing their fingers and bringing them up to his lips. He kissed their joined hands ever so lightly, his lips soft and warm and lingering. She was trembling, afraid that if she made a movement too sudden that either he or she would spook, but she held her hand firm. This moment seemed fleeting, precious, and she would not lose it to her own insecurity.
“I don`t know how to be a leader, Emmrich,” She muttered weakly. “I don`t know what to do. I only know that I do care about you… I mean, all of you. Also you. But also the others. All of you,”
She trailed off at her misspoken words, not daring to meet his eyes until his other hand cupped her cheek and lifted her chin. Their gazes met, and he was mesmerizing, magical. She wished he would lean in and kiss her, because she was desperate to know how he felt like, how he tasted like, but he kept a far too polite distance.
“You are a leader, rook. You stand in face of danger and you do not linger. You speak out against injustice, and have no concern for those more powerful that may disagree. You hear of a god on a rampage and your first instinct is to spring to action. And you help everyone around you without a second of hesitation. To me, to us, there is no finer leader than that,” His face snaked closer and she felt his breath ghost over her lips. Despite their recent adventures he smelled like mint and something distinctly his, something wildly addicting.
“Oh,” She just breathed out, too enthralled by the moment to form any coherent thoughts.
He was so close, pressed up against her on the narrow bench, her leg tucked against his side as if it was the most natural thing. Their hands were still joined, but he had lowered them now.
“And you are brave, rook. Sometimes foolishly so as you dive headfirst into any battle without care for yourself - but so brave. Talented too. Kind. Strong. Compassionate,” He continued, as if he were unaffected by their proximity. But she felt his pulse beneath her touch - hastening as he spoke. “And you are wildly charming in your own, perfectly unique way. Stunningly beautiful, the kind words cannot describe. Utterly mesmerizing, actually. Distracting, but in a welcome way,”
Ilya wasn't sure where she found her courage, but it came to her in soft waves encouraged by his words.
“You speak highly of me. I-I didn't know you felt that way,” And then the panic crept up. “Not felt.. Not like that. Just.. Uhm.. the leader stuff. I didn't know you thought of me like that. I-In regards to being a leader,”
She trailed off, unsure how to correct her rambling. He only smiled in return, his thumb stroking along her lips.
“I feel a great deal of things about you, Rook. Some confusing, and overwhelming. But all positive,” He assured her.
“Oh,” She said again, but while her words fell short, she leaned forward an inch, and that seemed to be the confirmation he had been looking for all those days spent flirting in fleeting conversations. He closed the gap between them, his lips brushing against hers in the gentlest invitation, and she leaned into it, urging him closer. It was a sweet kiss, cautious and testing - but it was also a promise of what was to come.