Author's Note: I'm not sure if it's an accomplishment to say that I have over a hundred mods now and the ground's still there. I feel accomplished though. Mostly because one time, it wasn't and I fell in the hole where it was supposed to be. You value the ground more when it disappears on you.

IODH: I want Skyrim! But Oblivion will tide me over 'til then.

Nobody Important

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Only A Moment

In which real women don't wear dresses.

By: N3k0

Martin looked over the short, sparse lines that made up the girl's responses.

They were written in the shaky hand of someone who didn't have enough practice with the art to be comfortable with a quill, but they were direct, and legible.

He knew he should probably let her go. The girl was a curiousity, nothing more, and he had responsibilities. Still, he felt ... something. Worry, maybe. It gnawed at the back of his mind, dragged his thoughts toward an obviously dangerous woman ... who happened to be totally helpless in his tent. The biggest threat she'd presented him was the possibility of her disease spreading, and that was taken care of by simple cleansing spells.

And now she seemed intent on leaving, maybe without even saying goodbye.

He slid the note into a pocket, absently, frowning a bit to himself. He should be happy. Ariel would be, he was sure. They could repurpose the tent. The townspeople needed every resource they could get. He wouldn't have to waste the energy on keeping himself clean of the disease. He didn't have to work out the puzzle of a collapsed lung - much less two.

He found himself idly watching the tent flap, only half-listening to one of the men complaining about his neighbor-and-current-tentmate, as a shimmering, transparent figure opened it, carrying a somewhat less transparent bundle of clothing inside.

Well then.

The mystery of how to put on clothing one-armed was a frustrating one to Lyssi, especially since she found her hands wouldn't quit shaking. The feral, hungry side of her insisted that she didn't even need the dress, not really. No one need ever see her clothed only in the bandages, and if they did, she could just eat them and they'd die from that. Her modesty (which, that feral side of her was happy to remind her, was useless in the greater scheme of things) would be preserved.

She'd never known that animal instinct could be quite so eloquent.

Lyssi managed to pull the bottom of the garment over her head and slide her right arm through the sleeve. It had been a close thing. The injury continued to tug and pull, shooting white-hot pain through her entire body every time she so much as twitched. Walking across the camp and back had nearly killed her all over again, and the action of raising her arm above shoulder-height almost made her faint. Again.

She did not have time for this.

"How badly did you drain yourself, casting that invisibility spell?" The man's voice was soft, from the tent flap. She smoothed the dress out as well as possible. It was too large for her, fitted for a woman with a figure somewhat more voluptuous than a sword blade. Her left arm continued to hang numb, pinned to her side under the dress. Eventually she'd have to figure that out, too. She looked back at Martin, turning slowly to avoid falling over. She actually hadn't succeeded in casting any spells; she carefully tossed him an empty vial that had once contained invisibility potion. The stuff tasted foul, but it had saved her life more than once. "Ah," he said, catching the vial before it shattered on the ground. "I see."

He looked her over, then walked over to help her put her left arm into its sleeve. "You should be in bed ... well, I'm aware we don't have many actual beds available, but the point stands. You need to rest to heal." She shrugged slightly, leaning back into the healer's chest.

He was warm. When was the last time she'd been warm? He placed his hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Before she could stop herself, she realized she was crying, tears escaping against her will. She wiped at her face, but she couldn't stop. He noticed it, too. Instead of pulling away, or worse, mocking her, he wrapped his arms around her, a soft, white light enveloping them. Some of the pain eased.

"I don't know exactly what happened to you, and I don't know what's waiting for you in Anvil." She could feel a hand running through her hair. It was soothing. She let her eyes fall closed for a moment. "But you can't keep pushing yourself. You're exhausted, and you're injured."

In that moment, she wanted to listen to him. Who cared about duty? The only family she'd ever loved was dead.

Slowly, she shook her head. She had to do this. She could rest after.

Now she just had to pull away.

Instead, she turned to rest her head on the man's chest. She could hear his heart beating, the quiet rhythm soothing her. She let her defenses drop, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that reminded her this wouldn't end well; nothing ever did. She buried her face in the front of his robe, inhaling deeply. She remembered how he'd tasted, and she tried to remember why she shouldn't have another little sip. She couldn't think of any compelling reasons not to.

She leaned up. He was taller than her, too. She liked that.

"Ah ... that is, we shouldn't - you're injured - " She nipped his collarbone through the cloth of his robe.

Then, the reality of what she was about to do sank in, and she thrust herself away, embracing the pain of the action. Stupid, stupid!

She looked up at him, and it probably came off as a glare. She turned to gather her blades. Most of the straps were cut and worn, and her boots had been falling apart before she went to face off with Oblivion on her own. She'd have to resupply in Anvil, too.

"What did I do?" He sounded genuinely confused. Good for him. "What's wrong?"

This would be so much easier if she had the full use of both hands. In frustration, she thrust most of the weapons into her pack. Only her belt - and by extension, her belt knife - was any good to her right now, and even that was worn. Nothing was wrong with the blades, but she had nowhere to hide them on her person. The backpack's enchantment would cover their weight.

If not for that enchantment, when she slung the pack up over her shoulder, she was sure it would have crippled her. The pain of it made her gasp, which in turn made her wheeze a bit. She was sure her chest was leaking, though she wouldn't tell him that.

Not like she could.

Brushing past the healer, ignoring his confusion, she stormed out of the tent, narrowly missing the Breton.