(I own nothing and I hope you enjoy. Good day and God bless.)
Lavi Bookman expected hostility when the elf woke up. Infact, if such a thing didn't happen, he'd actually be quite shocked. What confused him was rather fact that he looked over the body several times. He's still not sure where on earth the elf conjured a small dagger from.
It was a notion that made him doubt whether or not this one was a mage or not but he was certain by the lack of runes or overpowering energy that it was so.
In actuality, even after being injured like this, if the shockingly beautiful elf before him was a mage, Bookman would have been dead already.
"Woah now," Said Bookman, holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed, "Woah now, calm down!"
But he didn't, he just tightened his grip on the hilt of the blade.
He was clearly in pain, his face scrunching up at thee sudden surges of agony as he clenched his side, his legs shaking underneath him.
"oN @ 9jR 7EË nÍyNÀÁ y=o7VË iT a5#=Á"
Suddenly, he began to hiss jumbled Elvish terms at Bookman. The poet couldn't make out any of it as he couldn't speak the language and for a moment he feared neither could speak a word of English which made his job significantly more difficult.
In the moment that he was trapped in his own thoughts, the elf suddenly let out a pained cry and upon looking up, Bookman saw him collapsing but before he could hit the floor, the poet caught him.
His body was feverish, weak and trembling, and for that, Bookman pitied him.
Nonetheless, he put a finger to his lips and gestured to his left.
The elf followed his finger and upon seeing the sight, his entire body relaxed.
There was the boy. Bandaged up just as the adult was to ensure his proper healing. Sleeping peaceful was the boy upon a pink velvet pillow that Bookman had originally given to his cat for her fifth birthday. He was neither bound nor injured aside from the things now hidden behind pure white bandages. He was safe.
The beautiful elf breathed a sigh of relief and remained rather compliant that point on, albeit completely silently, letting the doctor do what he must, rebandaging his wounds and the like.
The first time Bookman heard him speak a word of English was when he returned with a glass of water for the elf he presumed to be thirsty after all this time.
"What do you want." Said a voice as demanding and sharp as a leaders tone, and yet soft, delicate and clear like a wind chime in the spring.
At first, Bookman did not believe the voice belonged to such a creature, nonetheless, the elf glared at him warily, expecting a response, so he responded.
"Is that how you talk to someone who saved your life?"
"What do you want in compensation?"
A silence followed as Bookman thought the offer over.
"Your name." Was his simple reply with a charming smile.
The beautiful elf's eyes went wide behind silky locks of silver hair, sparking for a moment an almost curious energy he did not previously possess. In other words, curious, surprised, but not at all comfortable and that made Bookman disappointed in himself.
"Ah, sorry. That was brash of me." The poet breathed, scratching the back of his neck, and lowering his body in a polite bow, "Please forgive me for that. I am known as Lavi Bookman. I am a local poet and bard. Might I," He opened his eyes to look the elf straight into his, almost enchanted by the strong gaze, "Ask your name?"
The elf shifted. It was obvious no one had ever respected him enough to ever offer introductions like this and he knew neither how to respond, nor if he should trust such treatment as honest.
Despite that, this Bookman held himself low. He humbled himself to enquire of a name and even if his company was not to be trusted, after he saved them, there could be no harm in giving the strange man his name.
In fact, he practically owed it.
"My human name is-" He sighed heavily through closed lids, obviously rolling his eyes in annoyance at the sentiment he offered.
"Your… Human name?"
"It's more convenient. Do you want to know or not?"
Bookman was quiet after that.
"Allen." He spoke, "Allen Walker."
Another moment of silence.
It was now the elf known as Allen Walker to feel awkward under the humans eyes.
"W-Well, I don't know much about human names," He muttered, "And it was the best I could do, so-!"
"That's a beautiful name."
He was quiet.
"Wh-What?"
"What of the child? Does he have a name as well?"
"Not exactly, but, well…"
"Well….?"
"Timothy."
"That's great! Amazing! But… but wait, is he not your relative? "
"What? No, how dare you accuse his lordship of being a halfbreed!" Walker yelled, feigning great offense at the comment.
"No, no, wait! That isn't what I meant, I-!"
But Walker just laughed, the pain of his injuries and the trauma of the night before nearly forgotten.
It came to his attention that there was no reason for him to fear before.
This was no villain. He was much too naive and childlike for something like that.
When Timothy finally awoke, which was seven hours later, the first thing he did after rubbing the sleep from his eyes was give Walker the biggest hug he received in a long time. It was filled with relief, happiness, and many tears.
Bookman could see that, hidden underneath all the happiness Walker felt as he returned the embrace tightly, Walker blamed himself for this. Timothy was relieved to the point of tears because he was in pain to begin with and Walker knew it. He blamed himself for being weak, for not holding the strength the keep this from happening to begin with.
Bookman saw this. He saw the weakness, but he didn't know how to fix it, to take the world he knew Walker held on his shoulders onto his own.
If only.
But it was at this time that it became clear to all but those present that beautiful things bubbled to the surface, feelings were to be misconstrued and perverted.
Regrets were performed and words were left unsaid on stages such as these.
The waltzes of the lonely and mourning were danced and and tales of forgotten tears were spun in a beautiful realm of love such as this one.
Bookman should have said something.
He really should have.