Companied merely by the chirping of the birds out in the trees nearby, and the distant humming of a woman, a familiar woman. Damn, it was comfortable in that bed. Definitely better than what he would usually sleep in- the bench at the park, the corner of the Crookback boats, the filthy cots on the upper levels of the Mercenary Keep at best. After all, Altalaan households were more often than not decorated with Elven furniture, and Elven furniture always outdid what the Ailor could muster.
It had been a couple of weeks now, since the end of the Clicker Crisis. Since the clash at Typhonunburg, he had been bedridden. The knees and down below had been dysfunctional, but constant medical attention, the use of Sorcery, and some luck on his part, seemed to be doing the job. He knew he would get up soon- after all, he had to. All the bones in his body could break and he would still find a way to return to duty one day. He was destined to fight by divine intervention, and he was given no option to yield his mission.
The door creaked, and then swung open, an Altalar appearing in the frame with a silver tray balanced between slender and pointy digits. "I brought you some soup- thought you would appreciate it. Tried my best to cook, but you know me, I'm no chef." she spoke. The Altalar was a Fin'ullen, and as was her norm, spread the scent of lavender wherever she went. It was her special perfume, and being in her presence without sniffing that aromatic smell was comparable to looking for a needle in a haystack.
"Know it well by now. That venison you ruined- we could've made something out of it." the man responded, voice dry as ever, but passive, and calm. "Oh, be quiet. You're the hunter, not me." the Altalar remarked, rather swiftly. She placed the tray down on the side of his bed, and then seated herself down beside his bandaged legs. "You seem to be getting better, Dothraen." the lavender-scented sorceress added. "How'd you tell?" "Well, just something about the way you look, the sight of your legs is ... is less, hmm. Revolting." she flatly proclaimed. "Ouch, Ilmadia. Blunt as ever."
Ilmadia was her name, and Ilmadia was certainly not one who spared her thoughts. Dothraen appreciated that. Sure, it could get a little stingy at times, and even offensive. But Dothraen would never try to change that about her. It was something that made her trustworthy in his eyes. A blunt person could not lie.
"I imagine you'll be up and walking in a few more days. Then you can return to your little competition with Huron and Silver about ... what was it now?" "It's not competition anymore. After the Skinwalker, we're all aware that sharing bounties is not doing us any favor from a monetary point of view." Ilmadia could not hide her amusement. "Greed over camaraderie. I get it now." "It's not like that. The guards barely pay anything of note for high profile criminals. A hundred and fifty for a Werebeast? Who'd lift a finger." "You lift a finger." she called him out. "You don't have to take these bounties. And I can tell half the time you don't enjoy what you're doing." He sighed in defeat. Although he did not want to admit to the accuracy of her perception, he had to give credit where due. Arkenic eyes explored the walls as he mumbled. "More than half the time."
Ilmadia knew better than to press him further on it. Besides, why would she? She already knew the answer. She knew of his affliction, 'disease' as he sometimes called it. It was true- Dothraen was by no means an enthusiastic man about his line of work. He was a professional in his trade, and that was for certain, but the decades of experience beneath his belt was not a craft of his own personal will and desire.
Silence befell the room. Dothraen drank his soup, while Ilmadia rebound the bandages on his legs, applying her healing salve to the purple bruising that teased beneath the medicinal cast.
"You shouldn't have jumped with the Clicker. It was stupid." she said, finally breaking the silence, while her slender digits collected the locks of white away from the sickly Isldar's eyes and gently brushed them behind his ears, idly coursing her purple-painted nails through the white strands.
"I know it was stupid. I just ... mmnh. It looked cooler in my head when I imagined it. I guess the process of enacting it was not as cool." Ilmadia did not hold back her snort. "At least it's not as stupid as the time when you tried to land ontop of your horse by jumping off the highest balcony of the Mercenary Keep." "Or when I got overly drunk in the Willow and departed at five in the morning, carrying the barmaid on my back, all on fours and singing shanties at the top of my lungs." The two broke into low cackles at eachothers banter.
"Yeah, I guess I've done some stupid things in my life." he added as he returned to spooning the soup. "You really should be more considerate of your public image," she started, "After all, it's an important factor. You want to impress the people who are in need of mercenaries, so they'll consider pooling money on you." He gave a knowing grunt at her words, admitting once again to her superior sense of logic. "Well, two weak knees is not impressing anyone." "Oh, don't be such a pessimist, you boar. They're not going to be weak knees. If they were going to be weak knees, we would have known you to be a cripple by now. You're /healing/. Give it some patience, and you'll have your two proper legs again soon."
As Dothraen put away the soup bowl, Ilmadia snuck herself in between his arms, palming against his bare chest to shove him down into a laying position. She rested her head on the center of his ribcage, her toned arms encasing him by the waist as she buried her face against the pale and warm skin of the Arken-possessed. "You know, I could do this forever." she whispered from beneath the cover of her black curls. "Just lay here with you, and do nothing. For hours, days. Weeks even."
A faint smile grew on Dothraen's features, one arm supporting the back of his head while the other extended a comforting hand for the locks of her hair, massaging her scalp. "Sounds like a good time to me, too. Damn. We've been together for some time, haven't we?" "Yes, we have." she murmured into his chest. His eyes looked on towards the ceiling, the euphoric feeling derived from the womans embrace instilling him with wonder. "Don't want it to change." he finally added, voice low. "And neither do I, Dothraen."
"We should have a family someday." he spoke, eyes falling closed as he hummed with the thought. "We should. I can't imagine a little you, however. So, it best be a little me instead." "Heh. You did always have an enormous sense of self value." "And I'm going to make sure my daughter does too." "We already decided that it's gonna be a daughter?" "I decided for you. I'll also decide her name." "Wow. Where do I come in?" "We'll shove you in somewhere, don't you worry." The conversation went on and on.
He was weak. Injured from battle, and condemned to the sheets for weeks, if not months. But he was comfortable. It was a luxury, even. To be able to avoid his responsibilities, to neglect his divine mission, and to waste away his days lazing around with the love of his life, doing nothing for hours but having back-and-forths with one another.
If he could choose to live that life for the rest of his life over what he was given, he'd make the decision in a heartbeat.
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