Onua and Daine had managed, with the help of a fussy dragonchild and a patient basilisk, to return the fatigued Numair to Port Legann faster than the battles could even be jotted down in the Eastern history books. His battle with Inar Hadensra had more than drained him: he had been too weak to do little more than hold on to Onua's gelding's saddlehorn with one hand and smile lovingly at the bruised and bedraggled Daine. By the time they had reached the castle, a ship was already being loaded for the Swoop and by order of Jonathan himself the pair of mages, student and master, had been carefully loaded on board. The journey home had been uneventful, considering the manner of beastie and enemy that had been battling in those very waters only days before.
The two stayed handfast for the whole of the trip, their combined strength keeping them alive just enough to enjoy each other's company. Those on board had left them alone for the most part; few apart from their closest friends could make heads or tails of the sudden change in the nature of their relationship. Master Numair-- wasn't he considered to be the most well-educated connoisseur of classy ladies of the court? And the girl, the strange one-- she was no doubt pretty in a roguish sort of way, but in all honesty, she was the kind of odd prodigy that could only be doomed for a spinster's life. Not to mention the years that separated them. Still, the nurses and maids went about settling the two in, clucking and fussing about their health and their healing. It wasn't long before they were whisked into private towers high in the Swoop's main house, separated by the most well-meaning of people in the name of decency. After all-- people would talk about that sort of thing, you know.
Numair awoke within two days, his Gift already trickling back in and his strength returning due to possets and a well-deserved sleep. He rose out of bed slowly, ponderously, his mind not yet wrapped around What Had Happened or even Where He Was. Snippets of memory came to him, and, not bothering to pull a shirt over his breeches, he trotted down the hall to where he could only hope Daine would be.
As groggy as he was, the mage didn't give a moment's thought to the fact that he had been unshaven for a week and that he wore no clothes outside of the barest minimum required to save one's self from complete embarrassment. I recall them taking her downstairs, he thought, A most preposterous as any of a place to put that blessed girl. With each commanding step he took down the generously-décor'd hallway his dark brows furrowed deeper and the stormclouds in his mind rolled more violently. Who's idea was it to drag us apart, anyhow? Rather, who's business? And to put her so far away as to not have a window to cast those stormy eyes out of? Who is attending her-- why not me? Mithros, I'll bet no one even tried to rouse me! I'd give half my mother's estate to know just who arranged--- It was Numair's personal custom to fight fear with belligerence, even to the point at which he found himself now: dizzy, disoriented, and in desperate need of a place to sit himself down. He stopped his frantic striding for a split second, his pause coinciding perfectly with the exit of Melle, a healer's helper, from one of the other, unoccupied chambers.
Melle's days had been more than busy for the past while. The Baron had been all in a heated tizzy (and to think, Baron Cooper in a tizzy! To imagine such a great, laughing man in any state of flailing hands and worried glances caused a smirk to cross the servant's plump cheek) over the pair of mages they had shipped in since the treaty signing, just days before. Rather, the Baron's wife and the rest of the blasted countryside had been clamoring for news of the latest Tortallan heroes-- had they woken? Were they healing? And the undercurrent of it all was possibly the most intriguing of questions--- were they really in love? Melle tried not to preoccupy herself with such things. Her worries were to care for the healers; the cleaning, the starching, the dusting, the tidying, the polishing, the washing, the folding, the carrying of things that healers needed but always seemed to be too busy to drag about themselves. The two 'heroes' –for whatever reason, that's what the pair was being called— had been nice and quiet and slumbering, leaving Melle free to go about her duties. Suddenly, though, all the peaceable routine which had finally returned to the Swoop was flipped topside, bellyside, and halfway in between: a half-naked MAN with half a beard crawling across his swarthy cheek was stamping about her dust-free hallway, screeching like a nighthawk!
" Great Mother Goddess! Of all the; my stars! My blessed, blessed stars! What in the name of---" Melle couldn't figure whether it was more proper to cover her mouth, for fear of letting a volley of bad utterances fly, or to cover her eyes from the partial nudity of the spectacle. Taking into account the comely, though lean, physique of the spectacle in question, she didn't bother to bat an eyelash.
"I need to know where Daine is." Numair had long ago lost his ability to skirt around a subject of such importance.
"Daine..?" Even her vague knowledge of gossip failed her.
"DAINE."
"The girl. Oh, by the Goddess, the girl!" The pile of starched sheets fell from their shelving on her vast bosom; the maid's brown-sugar eyes widened and her chapped lips snapped into the picture of pity. "A floor down, Sir. The girl is just a floor down."
Perhaps it was his exhaustion that caused him to pause so, but Numair held her glance for longer than necessary to receive the inaudible message. Whilst he had sprung from his bed sheets with relative ease, ranting to himself about the injustice of not beholding his studentlove, he had expected Daine to be doing much the same only in the reverse: she should be pouting that soft lower lip, furrowing her brow and looking like the little girl she all but was, denied a sweet by an elder.
She was not, however; not unless it was only in dream.