By request, OeliasDenam. I'm not quite sure where this came from. This piece was originally meant to be fluffy fun but turned into severe Denam introspection – and lacked the sweet romance it was intended to have. In short, I don't like it. But I hope you do!
Neutral Denam comes off a bit more immature than Chaos or Law Denams in Chapter 3 and I've tried to show that here to some extent. You might be better able to understand Oelias and her motivations in this story if you've seen the revealing dialogue between she and Nybeth in the battle in the Palace of the Dead 5F, 4N.
I've used island names in this story that may confuse some readers. Here's a short list to clarify some of them:
Valeria: The large central Island where much of the game takes place. Almorica, Rhime, Phidoch, Heim, Coritanae, and so on are on Valeria. Valeria is only one of the many islands that make up the Valerian Isles.
Banhamuba: This larger island houses the Hagia and an active volcano.
Galdochae: The island Golyat is on.
Deknigos: This isle houses Ndmasa Fortress.
Unintended
The sailors were inept - if they could even be called sailors at all. Denam supposed he should not have expected a miracle when he had ordered his soldiers to sail a ship, even small as it was. Though he was funded by the Resistance, Denam's time on the run had taught him the importance of the management of Goth. When in Asyton, Denam had stubbornly refused to hire a ship's captain for a trip of no longer than a half-day across the channel from Valeria to Banhamuba and then, later, around to Deknigos in search of the elusive Necromancer. The journey should not have been a taxing affair, a two-day trip at most, if he counted their encounters. Unfortunately, very few in his Order, and even fewer within the Resistance troops Ronwey had given to him, were skilled in the arts of navigation or knew how to properly handle a ship. In the end, the results had been disastrous and had more than doubled travel time. 'Twas partially his fault; he was no competent sea captain, as his skill with sea vessels was limited to small boats that went to and from Galdochae to the main Island of Valeria. Perhaps he simply should have listened to his friends; 'twould have saved him time, money, and stress if he had not declined to spend a bit of Goth. He had never been the shrewdest of businessmen, and oftentimes such opportunity costs eluded him, but his misstep reminded him that perhaps there were times when he could not expect the world from his soldiers – or himself.
The entire excursion was a disaster. True, he had brought forth the Great Father's justice to two Necromancers and, more importantly, Philaha's mercy to their innocent tools, but it had certainly not been a clean operation, nor had it given many of his new troops, gifts from the Duke, a positive outlook on his skill as a leader when they already doubted his capabilities. Worst of all, worse than any incompetence or foolish decisions, was the battle at Ndamsa Fortress. There had been a long moment, when he recognized his opponent, that he had stiffened, unable to move, act, or think. His breath had been sucked away from him as if by a powerful Dark paralysis spell as the world crashed down around him; Gildas had died to save him. He had lost his battle with Martym, a battle that Denam had been unable to fight for himself. It was because of the Xenobian that the Walister had been able to pursue and free Catiua, even if the end result was his re-alliance with the Resistance shortly after. What could he say to the man who had died for him? What should he say? When the fallen Knight declared Denam the source of his hatred and pain it struck him to his core and rendered him inert. His powerlessness had affected so many; Balmamusa, Rhime, Vyce - still alive, but hunted, and Gildas. No doubt many more would suffer because of him.
Denam Pavel stood at the edge of the small ship, the vessel was a good step up from a boat but not large enough to be considered truly fine, and clutched the rail, his fingers white from the strength of their grasp against the soft, worn wood. He pressed his eyes closed; 'twas just the sea air, he told himself, his eyes were sore from all of the salt and brisk wind that blew into them. Gildas. What could he say to Canopus, Mirdyn, and Warren? How would he tell Lanselot, when - if - they found him? Denam grimaced and brought a hand down to his side, the only physical remnant of Xenobian Knight that remained. It had been the first blow Gildas aimed towards him. The Walister captain had not quite believed what he saw, that what was left of the man was serious and truly sought to kill him. The only reason Denam had survived the Knight's attack was Canopus, who had shot Gildas in time to unbalance him; the Winged had spoken the harsh words that set him into reality and allowed him to finish the battle: That is no longer the Gildas we knew. Even as he repeated the words in his head, he pressed his hand hard into the wound on his side, made by the fallen knight's greatsword. Gildas's weapon had not pierced any vital organs and Denam was skilled enough in Light to not trouble anyone with such a lesser wound when others needed it far more than he, so he had told none about the attack.
The pain helped. It was appropriate penance for what he had done - or what he had not done. It also brought him back from his morbid self-pity into the world of reality; he opened his eyes in a gasp at the excess of pressure he put on his side and cursed in response. When he removed his hand from his side his undershirt clung to the skin of his hip; the blood had not seeped through to the outside, through his armor, and Denam quickly pressed his magic into the outer layer of the wound as subtly as he could manage without drawing the attention of every Wizard, Enchantress, and Cleric on the ship. It seemed he had pressed on it harder, and longer, than he had thought, to cause such damage in a short time. You're such a fool! Denam could hear Catiua's voice in his mind. He had left his sister in Almorica after their argument, but her words remained with him, and a subtle dread within him cried out whenever he heard her speak in his mind, another reminder of what the war tore from him. He had done his best to avoid thoughts of their argument, and the words she spoke then; he evaded the thought that their father might not truly have sired them, as she said. Her declaration was not something he had the capacity to deal with in the midst of emotional turbulence that came alongside war and death. The battle was no longer about Denam; his issues had to be put to the side until Valeria was safe. Once he saved his father from the Dark Knights he would question him, but until then, Catiua's words would have to remain a ghost in the back of his mind.
The captain pushed himself away from the edge of the boat in frustration. He could not just sit about and mope all day. The young man ignored the calls of the soldiers who acted as the ship's crewmen as he passed over the deck and down into the lower bowels of the vessel. He nodded and waved offhandedly to those who called his name, but did not really pay them much heed beyond the simple acknowledgement. Denam held open the door to the lower levels for a moment to clear the hall; the lower areas were not particularly pleasant, but always remained dark, smoky, warm, and humid, as they lacked any true ventilation. The ship was not built to comfortably house a myriad of passengers. After a moment he walked down into the quiet hallways, the gentle rocking of the ship his only companion. The passages through the lower areas were small and cramped for him, as he had thick clothes and light armor that bulked his form up, as he passed. For some of the larger men, it must have been miserable to try and walk around in the crowded halls.
Denam had, rather selfishly he admitted, assigned himself a room close to the upper level of the ship so that he would not have to travel far to reach clean, fresh air. The soldiers had offered him the captain's quarters, but he declined; they had been far too stuffy for him. He did not know, or care, who took them. As the captain made his way some three paces towards his door, he froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he knew he was watched. His breaths quickened immediately as adrenaline coursed through him and his hand found its way to the hilt of his blade. He was foolish, he told himself rationally, there was no one on the boat to threaten him, but he stiffly turned around, still cautious and ready to strike if necessary. The young part of his mind whispered tales of sirens who lured unsuspecting sailors to their deaths, but he pushed them away. He was not a boy any longer; sirens were simple legends and nothing more, no matter how the sailors of Golyat swore by them. To his pleasure, 'twas neither ghost nor siren that stood behind him, but a normal woman, one he recognized.
"Captain." Oelias smiled at him, a foreign expression on her normally cool features; his formal title, altered slightly by her Galgastani accent, one he rarely noticed in common conversation with her, sounded odd on her lips, as if she was unfamiliar with such military formality. She met his eyes nonchalantly and showed no sign that she saw Denam's shocked and fearful reaction to her presence, but the captain had no doubt the alien woman knew what she had done. The Sibyl had no doubt stalked him quietly on purpose, to catch him unawares for whatever she sought to speak to him about. Oelias took a step closer to him, well within his space but not near enough to be uncomfortable.
"Oelias." Denam forced his hand from his blade, the earlier pain in his side forgotten. He did his best to return the woman's smile, but his awkward response only seemed to amuse the woman. Her expression, which earlier welcomed him, now held a hint of mischief and she tilted her head to the side, cheek rested on her hand, as if in thought.
"Come, this is no place for us to speak." She walked by Denam and pushed open the door to what she knew was his room. Denam frowned as he walked past; something serious must be on her mind if she wanted to speak with him in private, the woman was rarely so quiet and he had never found her to keep her motivations hidden. Her silence made sense, he mused as he took the door, still open, from Oelias as they both entered; she had just faced her father in battle, if he had done the same he would not be nearly as strong as she. Denam did know what went on in the woman's head, if she was disgusted, in pain, or simply troubled by what may happen to her brother or father and wished to confront the captain about it. The Walister had a good deal of respect for the Galgastani woman; many in the Resistance did not openly welcome one from Galgastan so easily, but she stood steadfast against their assaults and never responded with hostility. She rarely smiled, her face normally an impassive mask, one strong and meant to protect her. She was similar to Denam in that regard; no doubt she held in her pain as much as he did as well.
Unlike the other rooms, Denam's was not filled with bunks like on the lower levels that housed sailors or soldiers, but instead it seemed as if it was intended to be used as a guest room, likely for a merchant or guest of the ship's captain. There was only a single large bed that Denam slept on and a chest for belongings - one that held nothing, the trip was not long enough to necessitate Denam bringing more than was in his travel pack - and a single small stool and table to sit at. The room was dark and as Oelias found her way over to the stool, Denam took the torch from outside his door and lit the one on the inside to provide some light to the shadowy chamber before he returned it to its place and closed the door behind them both.
The Galgastani woman sat on the stool, her legs crossed over and hands in her lap. Her hair fell in front of her as she watched the captain without a word; her eyes were unreadable in the darkness, for a single torch could not bring bright light to the room. Denam stared at her, his discomfort rising as the woman crossed one arm over her chest and held her elbow in a motion that allowed her other hand to rest on her face. The captain blinked and continued to stare at her, not sure what she wanted to say. Her breaths were calm, serene even, but her impassiveness set Denam on edge. He moved over to his bed and sat on the end as he removed his boots for comfort. The Walister could feel the Galgastani's eyes follow his every motion and did his best to hide the pain in his side from leaning over and exerting pressure on the wound he had yet to fully heal. He resisted the urge to cringe and gritted his teeth as best he could to hide his pain. No need to worry the already-troubled Sibyl over a minor scratch.
Time passed in the room silently and Denam's breaths were loud in his ears. The woman continued to intently gaze at him, but her eyes had started to narrow, a sign he took as subtle annoyance. Had he missed some Galgastani cultural etiquette that said he must treat a woman in some way? His mind went over his father's lessons about the church; there were no issues with the manner he had spoken and treated the Sibyl; in the end, her ways were entirely mysterious to him and he had no idea what Oelias expected him to say or do. Denam sighed quietly and focused his attention back down to his belt, which he unbuckled and pulled off his waist and over his shoulder. There was no point in the removal of his armor, he would only need to put it back on in a few hours once they disembarked; 'twas not entirely uncomfortable, as he did not have the large bulkier metals and instead went for a more subtle, supple support of thick, comfortable leather and cloth.
The silence was too much. Denam felt the pressure close around him; so much was expected of him and the Galgastani Sibyl demanded yet more. The woman had started to toy with the bottom of her braid and twisted the hair around her index finger in boredom as she bit her bottom lip. She had followed him into his room and invaded his private time, as if she expected something, yet Denam had no idea where to begin, nor did he have any hints on how to address her issues. He worried the woman was upset that Denam had been unable to kill Nybeth, or perhaps she had yet more to tell him about the Necromancer and his ways and did not know how to start. The captain felt his annoyance spread; his mood was short from his earlier distress on deck. All he wanted was some time to himself so he could come to terms with what had happened and how he could make up for it in the future; she would not even give him that freedom. Best deal with the woman as quickly as he could.
"What do you want me to say, Oelias? 'I'm sorry I couldn't kill your father?'" He spoke more bitterly than intended, and he had certainly not meant to come off as harsh, but the Walister's discomfort from his wound and ill temper made him snappy towards the Galgastani woman. He could have sworn he saw a brief flash of amusement on the woman's face before she covered her features with sadness, which, oddly enough, passed over her quickly, much like storm clouds. Instead her features held a relief, so subtle that Denam was only able to read them because of practiced skill in the art.
"No. . ." She seemed uncomfortable, more so than before. Her earlier aloofness had faded and her expression had softened as she mused; she looked a good deal younger when she was not so distant. Perhaps others viewed Denam in the same way. Almost instantly that playful look was back and her lips curved upward. "What I'm here for has nothing to do with my family."
Denam frowned at her tone. She spoke lightly and kindly, but from her such was unfamiliar, even disorienting. He had only ever seen her severe that such light-heartedness surprised him. He raised an eyebrow, not sure what to say. If Oelias was not here about her father or brother, her purpose baffled him. The captain remained quiet, but continued to stare at her in the way she had stared at him earlier, a silent prod for answers. The tenseness that had earlier flowed through him at the shared silence had been broken, but now was replaced with a confusion and impatience. Oelias no longer looked uncomfortable either, and she had look about her that Denam knew well from his sister: stubbornness. She stood from the stool and walked over to Denam with a boldness that alarmed him. The Walister man stood immediately from the end of the bed in response, an innate defensive maneuver. Oelias was well within his space by the time he was all the way up, a frown on her features at Denam's attempted evasion. She was far too close for comfort and the captain looked away, but the moment he did he gasped out in shock as a spike of pain ran through him. He clenched his hip, where his wound was, the source of his agony; Oelias had poked him very hard and, if he judged by the way the woman looked at her hand, she, too, had noticed how vulnerable he was. "Tch." was all Denam said in response and grasped at his side to protect it from any further assaults.
"Captain, why have you not gone to the healers?" She might as well have put her hands on her hips and glared down at him as if he was a strict mother for all her annoyed tone reminded him of one; not that he remembered his mother, but Oelias fit exactly in what he imagined her to be like. Denam was no longer a boy; he would not back away from such a look.
"There's no need. I'll be fine on my own." He may not have pushed her away with his hands, but his words were brusque and his tone might even have been described as dismissive. The Walister appreciated her concern, truly he did, but 'twas unnecessary. Denam had been trained in the art of Light magic by his father and was entirely capable of restoration when needed. He simply had not had the time to rid himself of the wound - and nor would he so long as the stubborn Sibyl was in his room making demands of him.
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow in a look very reminiscent of one Catiua gave him when she knew he bluffed. She waved off his dismissive tone and moved closer, the space between them uncomfortably close and would appear intimate to any who entered the room. She put her finger to his chest, her nails surprisingly long and well groomed despite her profession, and spoke with utter confidence paired with a subtle mockery. "You can barely lift your blade. 'Tis clear as day for all of us who care to notice; your Clerics have been worried sick!" Her tone changed to annoyance and anger as, for emphasis, she poked at his chest.
"As I said: there is no need to worry over me. I can heal myself." Denam resisted the urge to huff in annoyance, a trait that perpetually annoyed him whenever done by an irritated Catiua. A bit uncomfortably, he raised his hand to Oelias's and removed it from his chest. He was not quite sure what to make of the situation; she had obviously come because she saw he had been hurt, yet he was surprised at her forcefulness on the subject. Perhaps she felt his wound was her fault, Denam mused, as foolish as the idea seemed.
"Then why don't you do so?" The captain had no reply for that. The wound may have been his penance, but he could not continue to attack himself for what happened - or so he knew logically. In his heart he felt he deserved it for Gildas's death. If only he had stopped Xapan, then Catiua wouldn't have been taken to Almorica and he wouldn't have had to let the Xenobian die. The White Knight's blood was on his hands as much as the Templar Martym's. Even so, the Galgastani woman had a point. Gildas had saved him, not so that he could mope about and get an infection that would kill him. It was Nybeth and Lodis Denam knew he should channel his anger towards, not himself, but life was not as easy as that and rationality did not always win such internal battles.
"Very well." He relented; he had to take care of himself. Too much counted on him to allow a moment of weakness in battle that would get him killed, be it by arrow or blade. If Oelias was stubborn enough to demand he be healed immediately, he would be happy to do it himself. To his surprise, Oelias did not move away at his acquiescence, instead she took a step closer, until she almost pressed against him and he could feel her breaths, before she moved her hands onto his shoulders and pushed him down on the bed sternly, as if she expected to be obeyed. Denam was so surprised at her boldness that he acceded almost without question and sat without though, before it occurred to him a half-second later what exactly had happened – and why it had been a terrible idea.
Suitably pleased with herself, Oelias stood above Denam expectantly. Her presence made him tense and he felt an uncomfortable pit within his chest and stomach out of a mixture of nervousness and discomfort. She looked at him with eyes that seemed to search for something. The woman's gaze was unreadable, no longer with either its earlier mischief or aloofness, as if she had some thoughts on her mind that she could not, or had no desire to, elaborate on. The Walister shook his head; 'twas no use trying to understand some women. In order to distract himself from the mysterious Galgastani, he looked down to his side and barely lifted his shirt, as to not expose himself, and placed his hands under his light armor and underclothes. He cringed; as expected, the underclothes were sticky and soaked with blood. From his position he could not tell if the wound was infected and if any of the liquid that stained his underclothes had been pus, but he had taken cares to make sure to clean it with alcohol the previous night and earlier in the morning so it should not be. He did not have any of the liquid on hand and could not clean it during this session, so he had to hope that the cut wasn't open enough that he might infect it with his relatively unwashed hands.
As his father had taught him, he started with the deepest part of the wound he could find with ease using his magic. The way he carefully prodded at his wound with spells was difficult and required a degree of control that almost surely exhausted one who lacked skill in the art. Denam did not have nearly as much control over the element as his father and sister, but he did consider himself better than average and could restore rapidly over short periods of time. As it had the day before, the touch of Light magic burned the deep wound; Gildas's blade had been tainted by the Necromancer's magic almost as much as Gildas himself was and that darkness had festered within. 'Twas not quite an infection, and the magic slowly faded away over the course of the days since they left Deknigos, but it made the recovery process slower and more difficult than it should have been. The normally-soft tingle was hard and painful, much like if he had hit his elbow on something hard just so. To touch his power directly to the foreign spell was incredibly painful, so he had to ease it in and around to clean the region, much like the removal of a poison without spreading it. Once the magic actually surrounded the taint, the purification was not nearly so -
"Ugh!" Denam looked up from his side, concentration shattered in an instant. Oelias made a sound of disgust and had a frown on her features, anger mixed with some other emotion. . .distress, perhaps. Certainly she did not thinking his casting so clumsy? Not even Catiua had any complaints when Denam opted to heal himself and she had incredibly high standards. "Remove your shirt." She put her hands on her hips almost comically as she looked down at him from her standing position. Her braid fell down in front of her, close to hitting Denam's head; she did not seem to care either way about the ridiculousness of her manner.
Denam was speechless. He worked his mouth to form words of bewilderment or consternation but no sound left his tongue. The most he could muster was a rather pathetic, half-hearted "Excuse me?" The captain was sure he misheard. No unfamiliar woman would make such a demand, certainly, especially not a woman of the church. Not even his sister would have simply demanded he remove his clothes on a whim, their father would have been appalled had she done so.
"Unacceptable, you're going to scar." As 'twas clear Denam was not going to do as she ordered, Oelias sat down on the bed next to him on his right, much to the captain's distress, and pulled his hands from underneath his shirt. The Walister man sat stiffly, not sure what he should say or do in such a situation. His eyes widened as she turned towards him and pulled his shirt upwards, since he obviously had no intention to do so. That was too much; the Walister's compliance with foolishness only went so far. He grasped her arms tightly and pushed them away and lowered his shirt back down. Denam was a tolerant man, but Oelias's actions bordered on madness. The woman met Denam's stern eyes with her own, ones that no longer held their earlier mischief or discomfort, only irritation. The way Denam held her arms and their close proximity bordered uncomfortably on intimacy, but he dare not release her, for he had no idea what she would do when he did so. Her words were tinged with distaste but spoke in a tone that was just as stubborn as the Walister man's. Neither would give into the other so easily. "I've seen more of soldiers than their chests and abdomens; a little bare skin does not phase me. Let me do my job."
She attempted to tug away and, as she did so, Denam belatedly realized just how foolish he was. With a deep color in his cheeks he released her and turned his face away so that she could not see his humiliation. Oelias was a Sibyl, a healer of the church, and even if she was Denam's comrade she spent much of her time restoring health to the wounds of soldiers. She did not wish to hurt or humiliate him, nor did she mean to act in an inappropriate manner. The Sibyl was used to uncooperative patients and treated Denam no differently than she did any other. The Walister assumed that there was also a cultural barrier involved between the two and the Galgastani woman's actions would have been considered fairly normal for her; it did not help that Denam had been raised rather strictly by an Abuna to act in accordance with the teachings of the Great Father, which would have deemed Oelias and her forwardness unacceptable. Denam lowered his head in shame; how badly he had misjudged the woman and jumped to conclusions. He finally nodded and turned away as he pulled his outer shirt over his head and armor. He would not apologize, but his silent agreement was enough to show the woman he understood and regretted his actions. The captain's armor, underneath his outer shirt, took a bit more time and Oelias watched quietly, but Denam knew damn well she was likely satisfied with herself, as he removed the leather straps around his arms, stomach, and chest. His motions were clumsy from his almost childish embarrassment that remained, but Denam pretended not to notice; best not admit to the weakness, or else the woman would attach herself to it and cling like a leech to an open wound. He laid the armor out on the bed beside him and removed his gloves and then, finally, his undershirt, which, as expected, was colored red with blood all the way up his side. The way it had smeared made the wound look much larger than it was. There was a large light red stain on his skin around his entire side that would need a wash as soon as they reached dry land.
With his shirt off, Oelias had found her way close to him again, the space dwindled by the second and again he felt the heat radiate from her body and her skin against his. He turned around so that his side would not be bent and would be easier to access for the healer in subtle hope that it would give him more space. The woman leaned down and glanced over the outside of the wound and the skin around it before she placed her un-gloved hand on his flesh. She, too, had not washed her hands with alcohol so he understood her hesitation to look too closely. Her magic was much softer than his; where Denam's magic felt like harsh velvet, pleasant but still rough, hers was a cool, light silk that passed over him, much like the chill of a quickly flowing river. 'Twas not unpleasant, but very different from his own and Catiua's; it seemed Galgastani Sibyls had been taught to use their magic differently than his father. He had once been told that the Galgastani even had whole towns and cultural subgroups within them that devoted their lives to the study of healing and considered it one of the higher arts.
Denam held back a pained grunt as Oelias's magic found its way around the 'curse.' He did not withdraw, but only through his strongest self-control; she had not know the spell was there and had unintentionally caused him more pain than he had ever caused himself. A thick band of sweat formed all over his forehead and underarms as he endured the persistent agony stoically, his breath rapid and his short nails dug into his hands, which formed tight fists. "Dark. . .this is. . .where have I. . .?" Oelias spoke to herself more than Denam. Denam barely registered the words as he clenched his jaw and did his best to prevent shaking from the painful tingle that overwhelmed half of his body. "Oh!" It seemed almost an eternity before Oelias stopped and gasped when she realized how much pain Denam was in. She looked up to his eyes, a worried expression on her normally-haughty features and he saw true distress and regret and her lips parted in a moment of weakness before it was all gone in and instant. The worry was replaced with a soft comfort, as if she hid her fears, and put her hand, too warm against his already uncomfortably hot body, when she spoke. "Your wound is quite a bit worse than expected." Her tone was entirely professional, but the cool appellation that most healers exuded was ruined by the soft lines of worry the young woman was unable to entirely hide that crossed her features. "It will take some time for me to heal you without the proper tools."
"I keep it clean and heal it every night, 'tis simply my exertion that continues to open the wound." The Walister replied stubbornly. The pain faded and no longer enveloped his entire being, but his body was tired from its efforts to hold it back and the sweat still fell. He felt a wave of nausea and exhaustion and suddenly wanted to curl up and rest. "I will say it for the third time: you needn't worry over me."
"Yes, there's no infection, but the blade struck deep and the remnants of that spell may permanently damage your flesh if not removed soon." Oelias replied with just as much stubbornness as the captain. Her hands found their way to his shoulders and very lightly pushed against him in attempt to make him lay backwards. Denam was almost tempted to give in due to his weariness, but persisted in his resistance until Oelias put more weight into it. She was practically on top of him by the time she had enough force to push him down. In truth, Denam did not quite know what had gotten into him; he was rarely so stubborn and irrational. The pain must have made him feverish. "Roll over onto your stomach." Oelias continued. With finality, Denam told himself he would not be so foolish any longer, he released a long breath and carefully turned over, making sure not to hit him wound, his armor to the side of him, or Oelias.
Oelias moved slowly at first as to not shock the already-nervous captain. At the first touch of her hand to his side Denam jerked almost violently. Both were surprised by the reaction until Denam felt his face flush and buried it in the pillow that that Oelias wouldn't see the reason; 'twas too late, however, and he knew Oelias had found his greatest weakness. She removed her hand from the area around the wound and again poked at his unwounded side; Denam curled up in defense only, to his consternation, hear Oelias giggle at his reaction. This Galgastani woman was evil embodied; not even Catiua would have taken advantage of him with tickles when he was weakened so. She was more like her father than he had ever before realized.
"Stop." He grunted, voice strained. Oelias's giggle turned into a laugh as she moved her hands up from his side onto this back. Denam forced himself into calm, but each time the woman made a fast motion he twitched, ready to defend himself from her assault. Oelias still seemed amused as she leaned over him to look at the wound, her hands, one on his back and the other on his side, channeled magic into him as she explored the area, now with easier access to the damage. Her laughter subsided as both fell into a silence; Denam's nerves eventually relaxed and he found himself calmed under the confident touch of the experienced healer. Oelias was more careful this second time as her magic made its way around inside his wound; she could not restore it at once, of course, but her magic, paired with his own healing, would make him battle-ready by the time he reached Almorica - or so he hoped. Oelias's method was strange and he was not quite sure he approved of the way she dealt with the magic that had been left within him; rather than chipping away at it slowly, much like trying to break a rock apart, she seemed intent on dissolving it, like a clump of sand in the water. The Walister captain could admit that her method was certainly less painful than his and the tingle that was caused by per magic's strictly controlled was pleasant, not agonizing. He would compare it to having lightly sore muscles from exercise, a pleasant discomfort, with the sharper pain of a pulled muscle.
The woman's control over her magic was impressive. The Galgastani put Catiua to shame when it came to her skill in Light; she had more experience than her years let on. He was still nervous about his exposure, but he released a long breath of satisfaction as he leaned his head down on his arm and brought his face up from his pillow. He was still inwardly tense and; he used his as a covered echo over the woman's to prevent the unlikely case of betrayal. His actions were more instinctual rather than the actual belief that Oelias would harm him; he did not like others so close to his space, let alone close enough that their magic could manipulate his body. Over time, Denam slowly felt the dark magic disintegrate within him; whatever the curse was, Oelias had no issue with its removal and had been much more efficient about it than Denam. Truthfully, 'twas not entirely gone, more split apart into small pieces. He could feel the tingle in a larger, broad area around the wound rather than secured in one single area, but the spell would dissipate over the course of the next week or so. Many tiny pieces of the Dark Magic would not harm him; 'twas much like trying to remove a few rocks from the path instead of a boulder.
"That should do it." Oelias's voice was worn from her earlier concentration, but she seemed satisfied with herself. Denam touched his side with his magic; the external wound was still open, but the deepest damage had healed to some extent. He would need to be careful not to reopen it this time. He almost laughed at the thought; Denam knew well that would not keep his caution in mind once he became 'captain' again. Perhaps 'twas why the woman had been so persistent in the first place, she knew how he would not care for himself. After a moment of silence as Oelias watched Denam explore her work, she spoke again, expectant, with a subtle demand that told him she would watch and make sure he did as she told. "You'll be able to heal yourself more thoroughly now."
"Many th-" Denam murmured and belatedly released his magic, which he still held around hers in defense. Was that really so difficult? He asked himself, but the answer that resounded in the back of his mind was a confident 'Yes.' The Sibyls had more important duties to attend to than healing him. He attempted to push himself up, but was stopped when he felt a very heavy weight on his shoulders that prevented him from rolling over or sitting up.
"I don't think so, Captain." Oelias laughed, a darker sound than what he heard from her before. If she was no healer, he might have even called it flirtatious or husky; he simply refused to believe she acted that way and 'twas his mind playing tricks on him with her closeness. Her magic remained in his body, his hormones simply responded inappropriately. "The way you care for yourself? I think not. Allow me another moment, if you would."
Denam was about to decline but was silenced almost instantly by the touch of Oelias's cool magic on him once again. Unlike before, she did not touch his wound or examine him, but instead she used it as an addition to her fingers that ran up and down his back. Denam shivered at the feathery touch, but her weight prevented his withdrawal from the unfamiliar situation. Each time a finger ran up his back he brought his shoulders up in an unconscious defensive maneuver, despite the lack of any displeasure from his body. No one had touched him in such a familiar, even kind and respectful way, in years - not even Catiua – and he doubted any other woman before he found a wife would do so. As Oelias's Light magic coursed throughout this body, Denam was not sure if he should be horrified or simply allow himself the small pleasure of her delicate touches. His morals, unsurprisingly vocalized by an internal voice that sounded dangerously close to Catiua's, told him the situation was entirely too inappropriate for a Walister captain and a Galgastani woman to be in, healer or no. As the woman's nails and magic made their way down his shoulders and forearms, the argument about what was 'proper' or not fell apart in almost an instant and Denam's mind gave in; his body covered in small bumps of pleasure and he could not resist a very open tremor when her fingers ran over both the front and back of his hands.
'Twas all the prompt the Sibyl needed and her hands went to his back. She no longer stroked him, but instead lathered at the muscles in his shoulders; he winced at the sharp pain spiked through his body, only barely nullified by the pleasant touch of her magic. As she released the tenseness from him, her magic healed the remnant pain away and left him feeling loose, uncomfortably so. Almost instinctively he re-tensed his shoulders and shrugged them up close to his neck, which only provoked the stubborn Sibyl more. Her massage persisted and demanded absolute obedience - obedience Denam's mind did not want to give, but his body screamed and begged 'yes' to. He gasped out loud as she rubbed a particular muscle on the upper right side of his back, one he used often when he held his blade. He grunted as she put her full weight onto him, she might well have lain atop him from how close they were, and grasped at the stubborn muscles of the high-stress Walister captain. She did not relent in her pursuit, but Denam could not say he did the same and found he enjoyed her pleasant touch more and more. As time passed, his body became relaxed, his breaths slower, his shoulders less likely to tense under the touch of her magic and the forceful circular motion against the muscles of his back. He closed his eyes and took in the conflicting pleasure and pain as he desperately tried to avoid the thoughts of Oelias's soft curves that pressed into him.
"Denam." The captain did not know how long he had remained in his small bubble of comfort and acceptance before Oelias lifted her hands from him. Her weight remained, and her hair had fallen into a pool in the center of his back that tickled him whenever she moved her head. The aftereffect of her magic was immediately noticeable and he longed for it once again, the withdrawal pained him in a way similar to what happened when one stopped oneself in the midst of pleasure. Her voice was quiet, but given how close she was to him, he could hear her every word. Her tone was severe and stern and he felt as if he was scolded. He barely even registered that she spoke his first name instead of his title. "I know you want to help the Walister but. . .don't lose yourself in the process. Look what happened to my father."
"Pardon?" Denam blinked at her rapid change in subject as he wrapped his mind around her words. Her intention was certainly unclear and Denam would have felt offended at how she compared him with Nybeth. He was certainly no mass-murderer who used human lives in 'research.' Had he not been so relaxed from Oelias's massage he would have been angry. "I think you misjudge me." Denam kept his tone composed to hold back the irritation that built within him.
"Hush. Be silent and listen. What have you given up for this war?" Oelias fell silent as she gave the flabbergasted captain time to muse on her words. It did not take him long to come to the conclusion he always did. It tore him apart, ever since he had left for Asyton from Almorica. Father - in the hands of Lodis, he could not save him due to the Duke's orders and alliance with the Dark Knights. Catiua – she rejected him for his desire to save their people. Vyce - who loathed him for reasons he still did not understand, so much so that the man had given up his allegiances. More than all of them, Denam had given up himself, his morals. He had returned to the Resistance when he did not agree with their ways. Daily he faced hostility, no matter if the Duke named him 'Hero' or no. Every night he lay in bed and questioned his actions; what should he do, who could he save, what could he change for the least sacrifices? He had no answer. Perhaps he did understand Oelias's words; Denam had sacrificed those close to him for his war, as Nybeth had sacrificed his dear ones for his research.
The Sibyl continued. Her voice held none of its earlier haughtiness, but it also lacked the empathy he would have expected from her words. She was stern and confident, as if she wanted to give Denam her strength. Of course, her position above him also helped secure her point. "I haven't known you long, but I can tell. Something eats away at you. This might not be much coming from me, but. . .perhaps for a time it would be best to look inwards, at what you want, at those most meaningful and closest to you, rather than to center your life around the war."
". . ." Oelias pushed herself from Denam's back and off the bed after a moment of contemplation between the two. He grunted at the directed force of her weight in a mixture of desire and relief, desire for her touch to continue, relief that the sensual acts she had committed were over. He could not think of how to reply to the Sibyl; she had judged him well, too well. If a woman who had been with Denam for such a short time could read him so easily, he must be an open book to his other companions. 'Twas not only Gildas's death that troubled the captain, but everything else that had been required of him as well; what he had done - or what he had not acted upon - welled up within, a bubble ready to burst. Much like Catiua's anger at him had finally come to a peak, Denam wondered when his distress would rise until he could no longer control it. He could not find the words to counter Oelias's morbid premonition, nor did he know or understand how he could overcome it. His answer, a simple internal rationalization that he always used to justify his actions, was the he must do what he could, for he was capable of no more than that.
The Galgastani woman was as unreadable as he was. Her back was to his bare-chested form and her head tilted down, as if she was troubled. Her braid fell over her shoulder again and hung by her face. "Do not be afraid to come to us." The Walister did not know if she meant the healer, for his wound if he was ever ill again, or if she meant his friend, for they would support him in his troubles. Perhaps both - or neither; the woman was a mystery, alien, cryptic, one of the few people could not define. With no more words necessary between them, she left quietly, with little more than a breath as she exited his private quarters. Her magic seeped out of him slowly, the last tendrils of it dripped and merged with his own as he mused.
Denam was back where he started. When he showed his pain, he troubled others. When he hid it, he troubled them more. He did not know how to minimize the worry that remained constantly within, or if 'twas even possible. But there was nothing he could do; he had no idea if he could make his actions up, to both himself and others, nor could he change them. How much more had to be sacrificed for his better future? Oelias's plan backfired; she had healed his new wounds while she attempted to instill the captain with confidence and relax him from the tension that had pent up within, but as she did so she had only torn open old scars. Physical relief was nothing if his mind remained troubled; perhaps the Sibyl had yet to realize that.
