The room was comfortable, there was no denying that. Even with the curtains taken down, the place was set at such an angle that the light of the sun only burst through full force for about two hours. Since that was hardly enough to raise the temperature in the room even two or three degrees, and the light afforded could be easily avoided simply by closing one's eyes, it seemed as though the room had been chosen with its present inhabitant in mind.
Just to the side of the bed, simply fashioned and left uncovered, was a small, square wooden table. The chair whose ladder back braced against the wall was obviously one of the table's counterparts, since it bore the same simple style. The bed itself was filled with sheep's wool and feathers, a combination that made it much softer than the beds of commoners. The blankets were multicolored swirls of spun yarn; warm, thick, and just as comfortable to be underneath as they were to look at. The sheets beneath were smooth yards of cotton. Across from this relatively sumptuous resting place was the washing basin, which was dry at the moment. On the other side of the room, just inside the door, was the second ladder back chair that rested next to a very small, round table whose more ornate carvings didn't quite fit with the plain set.
There was a highly polished wood desk with no drawers that sat immediately underneath the largest window. At the moment, it held the torn drapes that had been resting comfortably on either side of the windows for many undisturbed years- before Bahlzair arrived. Now, with the only partially-mobile Drow leveling an interested gaze that could be mistaken for a glare at the old Human woman who had turned the desk's chair so that it was facing the bed with a swatch of familiar fabric spread across her lap, the room seemed somehow much darker than it ever had been before.
Druce, however, couldn't comprehend the fear that constantly accompanied Eunice every time she poked her head in, however.
"And so I learned," she stated flatly, completing a story that had begun some fifteen minutes before. "It wasn't easy, mind you, since there was always something else to be done in the house, but frankly, if I hadn't, he'd have had to bind up all those broken bones, sprained joints and busted faces by himself, and that simply wouldn't do. Well, I thought it wouldn't do. You very well might have let them all rot with the gangrene."
The crimson eyes turned away from her for a few moments, contemplating a reality different from the current one, then returned to their mark. In the air just to the right of Druce's busy hands, illusory script appeared.
"Well, that's little excuse, my dear. All soldiers are quite self-absorbed," Druce replied simply, as though it were the most mundane statement in the world. "Or they quickly become that way. I've not met a single one that doesn't think that I should thank him profusely for killing others on my behalf, as though I hadn't the ability or presence of mind to do so for myself, if I so chose."
More script appeared as an interested smirk appeared on the Drow's face.
"Then I'd die, wouldn't I?" Druce shrugged, the motion moving her silvery hair, which was only loosely braided, and so rested heavily upon her shoulders. "Let me be dead. People cling to life foolishly, anyhow, the weak-willed fools. I've stared death in the face yea these past ten months, and many times during that span, I prayed the gods that they'd simply end it. Finally- mind you, this is after years of faithful devotion- finally, I realized that they pay us not one iota of attention at all. We are each on our own in the face of our miserable existence."
Bahlzair contemplated these words deeply, his perpetual scowl reappearing quickly. After a few minutes of nothing but the sound of Druce's needle piercing and pulling through thick fabric, Bahlzair willed a few more words into existence off to her right.
"Of course; put a sword in my hand, and I'll use it. I mayn't be the strongest woman in the world, but anyone will tell you that I'm a determined one."
And immediately, blazing script appeared.
Druce stopped sewing to look at the sentence, then laughed with strange delight, as though the two were speaking of something as dainty as a floral pattern or a perfume. "I do see what you mean, my dear, but just because I'd be satisfied to die doesn't mean I'm on fire to do so as quickly as possible. That's the difference between weary and suicidal- and you knew that before you asked. I don't think there's so very much that I can tell you about every shade of death that you don't already know."
She turned back to her stitching as her laughter died away to a soft chuckle, and Bahlzair rested his eyes on her work. He disliked his own fascination with sewing, but found himself too weak to deny himself the pleasure of watching. There was something inexplicably calming to him about the needle pushing, piercing, pulling through to the other side of the fabric. Druce, who'd noticed his eyes lingering a bit too long on her work the day before when she'd put whip stitches in the savagely torn fabric, brought most of her sewing equipment up from her sitting room on the first floor, against her husband's better judgment.
"You don't know how to touch this creature's soul," she'd argued as he'd put stitches in the gash that the Orcish sword had given her. "He's too distant, too damaged, too perverse for you- for any of us, quite frankly. But if something so harmless as my stitching the curtains in his sight can keep him- or at least temporarily distract him- from thinking of new ways to terrify Eunice, then so be it."
And Terezio had made his arguments- her physical safety, her other chores and responsibilities, her reputation, her sanity- but none of them had the desired effect. In spite of all the old battlemage could do, his wife spent a full hour moving her extensive sewing materials up the stairs to satiate the Drow's interest for her mundane chore. She had dismissed herself to tend to other chores- the washing of dishes and clothes, the management of household accounts, the administration of Terezio's teaching schedule and materials, among many others- and was somehow surprised to find that Bahlzair seemed remotely pleased at her return. Not being one to hold her tongue, she remarked upon it, and Bahlzair asked her why she expected him to dislike her company. So had begun their conversation, which had taken many twists and turns since.
Finally, when Druce finished the drapes and turned to put them up, Bahlzair noticed that the inside of her right forearm bore stitches- wicked-looking dark ones that irritated the fair flesh they bit through. He waited until she climbed down from the chair- which she'd used because she wasn't quite tall enough to put the drapes back properly- to allow more script to appear between himself and her.
"Oh, they're not so bad," she shrugged. "Not so ugly as some other wounds I've seen in my lifetime, especially with two boys. It smarts a bit when I'm at rest, throbs if I'm moving, but it could always be worse. You yourself sport a few; I saw them. You must have been an unholy terror yourself, as a child, to get stitchwork done under your jaw."
Bahlzair pondered this statement deeply, then found that he agreed. Although the Human woman before him probably didn't consider the age of 64 to be childhood, most types of Elves did. He chose to keep the details of his stitches to himself, and instead allowed his mind to wander back to what he must have looked like when he received them. He imagined his skin being stretched and pulled at, all the while leaking blood and poison. He had been awake- trying desperately to scream- during that surgery, but he had never actually considered what he may have looked like since then. A few moments after he truly began giving his mind to the workings of his imagination, he heard a familiar laugh.
How very interesting, Shadowfire.
Bahlzair cast his gaze around the room, noticing that Druce had turned back to putting up the second set of drapes and that his patron was standing right behind her, gazing up at her reaching arms as though they were the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. Which was absolutely untrue, of course. The obvious mockery of Bahlzair's fascination cut deeply.
It's absolutely adorable how much you long to crush her spirit and her bones. You want to grind them up- shred her flesh- reduce her to mere ribbons, tendrils- scraps.
Bahlzair remained silent, consciously deciding to allow his mind to go completely blank.
She isn't useful, the six horned creature lamented with a sigh, as though he were truly sorry. Stiff and tough- one foot in the grave; she told you that herself. Yet, you have allowed her to distract and delay you.
The Drow suddenly grabbed the glass of water that had been sitting on the small square table next to him and launched it with full force toward the far wall just beyond Druce's left shoulder. The resultant smash, with a spray of water and a shower of shattered glass, startled her enough to cause her to loose footing on the chair. Yet, she did not fall backward, as Bahlzair expected- instead, she gave a small hop, which allowed the tipping chair beneath her to right itself seconds before her weight settled back onto it more evenly.
"Perhaps I'm not at my most honest when I say I'm just a seamstress or cook," the woman clucked, as though she were telling a faintly amusing joke. The jovial tone rapidly changed to a thoughtful one that sounded much heavier. "Oh, my goodness, I remember when Trizzie first brought that sort of thing in the house. Thought she'd give us a scare, I suppose- Rezi got himself nearly into a fit, but I simply figured she'd get hers one day, for messing around with baetzu, sirens and the like. That otherworldly smell is inimitable."
Bahlzair reached his hand out without moving another muscle in his body, and gave the table next to him just enough of a push to send it clattering forward to the ground. Druce ignored it, opting to finish putting up the second drape as though nothing were going on. And Graz'zt, who enjoyed watching what he considered one of his favorite vassals throw his rendition of a temper tantrum, smiled.
Your reticence has been duly noted.
Bahlzair felt a chill travel up his leg from his wounded ankle to the hip before dying away.
Do what you like, Graz'zt concluded, moving toward the Drow to run a single finger from the unhurt leg's ankle up to his face. Caressing Bahlzair like an infatuated lover might, the demon allowed a honey-sweet smiled to spread slowly across his face. I know I will.
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