Damiel ran the entire way to the shared apartments of the Dark Elves without thinking, without even seeing the people he passed, every part of his body screaming in unadulterated terror.
He didn’t even realize where he was until he slammed the door closed and leaned his back against it, gushing sweat, chest heaving with exertion. He slid down the heavy door slowly as he gasped, hot tears streaming down his face as he desperately tried to calm the raging hammer of his heart; the damned thing felt like it was slamming itself desperately against his ribcage in a ridiculous attempt at escape.
“Any news on my husband?” Eatha asked curiously, approaching from the other room.
Seeing her, recognizing her, helped him recover from his sudden terror.
What had happened? He’d been teasing the human king and then... what?
Something had terrified him to the point that he’d fled from the King’s study.
It was then that he realized that he’d soiled himself at some point and grimaced in disgust. How many of the execrable humans had seen him racing through their halls, drenched in his own sweat and piss?
“I haven’t heard anything.” He replied curtly, not wanting her to see him this way, drenched in sweat, rank with the stench of his own piss. He hated how weak and trembly his voice sounded to his own ears.
“I don’t like this.” She complained, stepping out into the common hall and eyeing Damiel’s disheveled state with a raised eyebrow. “I already hate it here in these lands; having Artrus disappear on me only makes it worse.”
Damiel grimaced again. “I sent him to follow the humans and observe them; it will take him some time to come back.” He replied, repeating what he’d told her before. “Besides, he likes observing the common rabble. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d found some human eatery or shop that caught his eye. He’ll come back.”
Eatha sighed, toying with her reddish brown hair. “I want to go home.” She complained. “I don’t care about this little game you’re playing with these people. I want to take my husband and go home to where we belong.”
She eyed him again. “You smell disgusting. You should see to yourself.” She turned away from him and disappeared back into the apartments they all shared.
Likely he wouldn’t see her again. She had no love for anything besides her husband, she had no desire at all to participate in their mission, and she staunchly refused to set foot outside of their shared apartments, meaning that the only two elves that were committed to the mission were two out of three of the elves.
He struggled to his feet again. He was going to take a long bath. Yeah, a hot bath was something that would calm the quaking fear that shuddered in his chest.
Damiel stumbled towards the bathing room, disliking how his clothes stuck to his body, how his hair was a mess, how slimy and sweaty and disgusting he felt. He stripped off his clothes and filled the tub, lighting the fires under the tub and hating having to do it. None of the maids or servants wanted to have anything to do with the elves, which was all well and good- as it should be- but it made things inconvenient in that they had to do everything for themselves.
Eatha hated him for that, too.
After the tub had heated itself up, he climbed in and began scrubbing himself clean, and the familiar routine soothed him, calming him down, slowing his heart, comforting him.
He settled himself. There weren’t many mages in Stormheim, and none of them were skilled in illusionary magic, so... what had he seen? What happened at that exact moment that caused him to see that dreadful, terrifying monster- that thing of molten fire and light-devouring shadow?
He’d- He’d taunted the king in his usual, cavalier fashion, turned to leave, and then what?
I see you.
He jolted in the tub with a pained cry, his stomach lurching in his guts as he saw that horrific vision again, that monster of brimstone and nightmare turning his home, his city, his nation, his whole people to ash, casually, indifferently... arrogantly.
He burst into tears and huddled in the tub, weeping, until the fires under the tub went out. He stayed there, even as the water chilled and turned cold against his ebon skin.
*****
Toril eyed the girl in front of him. She looked to be about the same age as Sheilah should have been, slim and narrow hipped, a tumble of glossy black hair and deep blue eyes. She wore some sort of leather armor that was a blood-red scarlet with brilliant yellow streaks. Dotted in regular patterns were a series of spots that seemed to glow like embers and coals.
Davian had worn a similar outfit when he’d met the lad, though it was patterned black and charcoal.
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“You’re... Sheilah, aren’t you?” Toril asked hesitantly to the tanned girl wearing that ostentatious red outfit.
She nodded with a distracted look, her eyes flicking around the room, as if she were checking for traps or escapes.
“I’m Toril, I’m your father.” He greeted, holding out his arms.
She eyed the gesture curiously, eyes narrowing a little bit as she scrutinized it, as if she didn’t know what it was or what it meant.
She turned to the door instead, where the Dark Elf had fled. Toril lowered his arms with a pained expression that she didn’t see.
“Magdalene said that the Dark Elves were a threat.” She stated, and then added, “Yet he seemed... polite.” She added as an afterthought.
Toril frowned. “He keeps egging me on, trying to get me to kill him.”
The girl turned back to him. “If he wants to die so badly, why not oblige him?” She asked curiously.
He gave her a chuckle. “Ohhh, how I would love to do just that.” He replied.
It was obvious to Toril that the girl was distracted, thinking of other things even as she talked with him. He’d seen that sort of look all the time at functions with the nobility- pretending to look bored or disinterested while paying attention. Was it something that Magdalene had taught her?
“I’d love to strangle him until his eyes bugged out from his head...” He began, “but if I did that, elven warships would fill the harbor and we’d be dead in days.” His voice was scathing and bitter towards the end. “So I have to put up with his torment until the day when we can fight back.”
He switched tracks. “How did you survive the fall?” He asked curiously. “Why did you climb the wall in the first place? That’s dangerous.”
She smiled a little. “Dragons like climbing up to high places.” She replied.
He pointed to a chair. “Sit, sit. Would you like some breakfast?” He asked, and she nodded.
“A lot of breakfast.” She urged and he laughed and nodded.
“Of course, of course.” He replied, and gestured to the chair again. “Sit.”
She examined the seat carefully and sat in it cautiously. He raised his voice as he called for a servant; she immediately bolted out of the chair; a long knife appearing in her hand as if by magic.
“I- uh...” He began, and then gestured at the chair again. “It’s fine, it’s okay.” He offered, and gestured at the chair again. “Please, sit.”
She sat back down, and he began shifting stacks of papers around. “There’s probably a lot that you’re not used to, yet.” He offered. “I’ve heard that the Redstone is a very difficult place to live in.” He offered, trying to start a conversation. “Things are a lot different here. You’ll probably have a bit of trouble getting used to all the changes.”
She nodded silently.
He stopped what he was doing and glanced at Sheilah. “What did you do to scare him like that?” He asked.
Her distracted expression cleared as she focused on him intently. He wanted to squirm under that raptor’s gaze, but he’d been taught from birth to deal with intense and difficult people.
After a moment, she replied, “I showed him the Dragon.”
He wasn’t certain what that meant, but breakfast would be coming soon, and hopefully there would be time to talk as they ate.
*****
Sheilah had watched the man- her father- she corrected herself- hold out his arms in some sort of gesture towards her. Magdalene had tried to do that, too. She wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean.
In the Redstone such things were an invitation to embrace, to hug, but such things were usually reserved for new lovers and parents with extremely young children. It wasn’t common to see such things done so casually. She didn’t understand the need here in Stormheim, couldn’t reconcile it.
Toril and Magdalene might do such a thing in private with each other, but there wasn’t a need for them to hug her, she was an adult.
As she thought this, she suddenly recalled all the times Fialla had hugged her, and revised her way of thinking, but by that time her father had lowered his arms.
The Dark Elf situation was confusing to her, so she asked a pointed question to try and understand it, but the answer baffled her. Why allow an enemy into your land if the threat of war with the enemy was so obvious?
Was Stormheim weaker than what the Redstone thought?
Toril kept inviting her to sit in a chair, something she wasn’t used to doing. There were no chairs in the Redstone, everyone sat on the ground, around the communal firepit. When he raised her voice, she’d jolted, unthinkingly reaching for a weapon, but he’d made conciliatory gestures and requested she sit again.
She felt ashamed at her behavior; she should have been more level-headed and clear in her thinking, but there was too much distracting her. Her developing ability to split her awareness and consider all of the things going on around her simultaneously was filling her mind with so much information.
“What did you do to scare him like that?” Toril asked, and aside from the part of her awareness and attention she set to paying attention to all of the things going on around her, she focused the other parts on him, the man who was supposed to be her father.
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Part of her was dragon, and that part came forward and demanded his submission.
How could she explain it?
“I showed him the Dragon.” She finally decided.
Fialla would likely try to kill the elf on sight, so a little Supremacy to demand his subservience would probably keep him alive.
Probably.
“The Dragon, huh.” Toril mused. “Davian... told me a little about that Dragon’s power when he was here. Even as a teen, he was very formidable.” he added, creating an open space on the desk for Sheilah to use when the food got there.
“You knew my father?!” She blurted, and then turned away. Toril- this man- was her father.
“...right. To you, Davian would be your father.” Toril muttered. “I won’t tell you to forget about him, but you’re my daughter.” He finally replied firmly.