His leg is already looking better within days. Lulu figuratively pats herself on the head, allowing herself due recognition. Least she can do. Raka's hands haven't touched this one since he arrived.
Spot cleaning isn't cutting it anymore. She wonders if he'll accept, allow her help with her proposal. Probably not. She can bet on it over a game of sprouts and lift a little plea to the Seelie Fae Queen before the match. Leave her some moon cakes outside her door tonight, so she'll listen.
"You need a bath."
Veigar's growl isn't unexpected. She allows herself a single puff of air out her nose in place of the laughter she should not indulge. He hasn't stopped being ridiculous once since his first minute on her abode.
"Your fur will mat, and then I'll have to shave even more than I had to do to sew you back together, ragdoll. That sound tempting?" He lets another displeased whine out at that, and that's what gets her laughing.
"I'm serious, though." She throws the final gauze wad away. "You think you can manage on your own?"
He sighs. Deep. Bitter. She's lightly diverted at his refusal to state out loud what both know to be true.
"It's alright, I told you. I'm professional. I won't discuss your willy with you."
"God Sun, just stop talking. You make it worse with every sentence."
That breaks Lulu, and she turns away from him to cackle, muffling it in her anticubital fossa. "I'm sorry," she says, fanning herself. "I'll shut up."
"Fucking thank you," he grunts, and she's grateful he can't see the smile plastered on her face.
She starts binding his dressings. This part is always monotonous, taxing; she doesn't want loose spots in the zigzag or his leg to move from a correct position while wrapping, and having to go through it twice per day is wearing on her. Raka's said before that Lulu's made of porcelain and silk, it's true, but that doesn't thrill her. Her arms have been sore at night for a couple days now. Her mind drifts away from Veigar, as she shuffles this problem in her brain, mustering a solution.
Maybe she should try to involve her magic.
She has, so far, stuck to the tried-and-true formulae in her Manual, so true it hasn't failed her, so tried cause Soraka has had her rehearse it all, back to back, a hundred times, perhaps a couple hundred at this point. But her mana itches, relegated to simple spells, and her shoulders hurt. She ponders what she needs from this procedure. A steady hold without too much weight. An easy way to undo it twice a day to prevent infection. What could the Neighbors offer her?
She observes the construction in detail and notes her process, churning her brain; an idea bakes, rising from the depths of her neurons as she analyses it.
She'll have to give it a try on her own leg.
"Okay, it's done," she tells Veigar with a sigh. "You fancy anything?"
"Yes, actually," he says matter-of-factly. "If you'll torture me with a bath, at least entertain me with a game before. Compensation, if you may."
"Later," she says, refusing to let her idea go. "I've something else to do. Fancy a book?"
"Unbelievable," he puffs in faux-opulence. "What's more important than your patient, whom your teacher has commended to you so dearly?"
"I've smarter pastimes than playing games with braggart men. More useful ones."
He narrows his eyes at her. "You? Smart pastimes?" He replies, cynical.
"Surprisingly." She gathers the used wrappings, due for thorough disinfection. Some probably due for cremation. She tries to visually filter out which can be spared.
"I'll be the judge of that."
Oh, what an ass.
She rolls her eyes, a gesture more playful than dismissive. "Sure. Why'd you waste your time watching the work of someone you think so lowly of, anyway?"
"I'm bored, since my healer won't entertain me." He cocks his head.
"I honestly can't even tell if you're serious right now." If he does intend to follow her and be bored out of his mind, she'll have to prepare to help him up. "Do I leave you here, or not?"
"Well, not joking anymore. What will you do?"
"An experiment," she answers with a shrug. "Healer things."
"I read your manual. I'll grade your experiments. Hope you studied."
She snorts at him. "Are you truly that bored?" she teases, checking around the floor for anything else she might be forgetting.
"Sparring with you is less dull than reading yet another book on medicine." He shrugs, and it's a surprisingly honest admission, and she lifts her brows, which he notices; he scrambles to cover that little slip of his façade. "It's delightful to shut you down, I mean."
"Yeah, yeah." She shakes her head impishly. "Let me put all this gross stuff away first, though." She stands, pushing her little stool next to her nightstand with a foot.
"'Gross stuff'? You shatter my heart, healer." He puts a hand to his chest dramatically.
"Lulu. Keep calling me 'healer', and your heart won't be the only thing to shatter," she sing-songs, pacing out.
"Slowly. You don't want to split your thigh open," Lulu commands, her arms jelly from her efforts to hold what she can of the warlock's weight. His face tightens in a wince as, inch by inch, he lands on the same reed chair he has claimed as his spot for the past nine days. "There you go. All good?"
"Yeah," he answers in a huff.
"Great." She checks under his robe, seeing if blood's leaking, but the bandages remain clean outside, so if there is a bleed, it's not bad. "Yep, all good there, too."
"Pervert," Veigar deadpans. He's not allowed her a single slip—this one is no exception.
"Fine, I'll stop checking your thigh, then. Enjoy septicaemia cause you're impatient and don't like your injuries looked at. See if that dignity stops the rotting." The witch dusts her hands off. She whistles, twirling a finger, and to her hands fly her manual and a rather thin book on sprain and fracture treatment that's also served her well.
A flick of her hand, and the pages flutter open, as if a breeze blew them asunder; this illusionary wind continues until she finds the pages she seeks, reads the process of casting and splinting, refreshing the old paragraphs; she scans them quickly, her pointer highlighting the information she needs. Clay casts are even more consuming; they must be left to dry, and the bandaging must prevent wet clay from seeping through. Not good for open fractures, like his. Heavier than wood, too. How to get the same sturdiness from a splint?
She lifts the left sleeve of her three-fourths harem pants, observing her leg. She should have a control test of regular wrapping to compare, probably. She should start with that. Control on her left and trial on her right. That seems sound.
Pix flutters to her at her usual call, and she sends him off, in Fae, for a roll of bandages. With sweeps of her hands, slabs of wood walk to her like stilts without a pilot, pacing rhythmically. Veigar observes the spectacle with visible skepticism, but Lulu's beyond his antics at this point, too absorbed on her own.
The sorceress reaches behind herself for one of the living room chairs and sits, hiking the sleeve further up; on call from her left index, a second chair hops in front, serving her as a footrest. With gestures of a conductor, her fingers float the boards to either side of her leg, hold them there; in perfect sync Pix arrives, passing her the bandages, and she begins dexterously wrapping around. It really is easier when she doesn't have to check the limb won't accidentally snap in two throughout. She peripherally notices the warlock observing her, seemingly engaged.
Lulu has memorized the motions like a dance; her fingers twist and turn like the legs of ballerinas. She notices Veigar lean forward in his chair. It makes a spark ignite in her stomach; maybe pride, maybe the delight of surprising him. She's done in minutes, deftly tying the final knot closing the armature together.
"It works," she says to herself, rolling her shoulders. They already feel sore just from that; she's acutely aware of the toll from her accumulated effort, much to her chagrin. "But it's a bit cumbersome, heavy..." She rolls the leg from side to side: the wood bulges out, heaves on it. "Not good if you wanna move around..."
She props her leg off the makeshift footrest, feeling the weight. She'd never had to ponder the difference it would make on the smaller build of yordles until now, and she wants to slap herself for it. It may be navigable for a human, but it's bulky enough on her she feels it could potentially pull her off her seat.
"Not good," she echoes, thoughtful. "Do you feel it as heavy?"
She doesn't even grace him with the time to answer, sighing and rolling the other sleeve up to halfway her thigh. "Come here," she says, and she notices Veigar cock his head; then settle down as the second pair of planks gently hovers and settles by her right leg.
"Hmm." She spins her index, trying alternate arrangements; however, the structure she has in mind challenges the usual way the armature is built. Her lips purse left to right as she draws and erases prototypes in her mind.
"Maybe a layer of wrapping first... Book." It opens for her, and she peruses it again, looking at the different patterns of wrapping. Her right index taps on her chin, as it does when she's deep in thought like this.
"I got it." She feels the mage lean forward, his interest escalating.
She decides a basic crisscross wrapping may do. She doesn't even bother with the analogue way; she subtly goes through the motions with her hands resting on her thighs, the roll following her silent commands, elegantly weaving around her leg. She floats the roll up with a gesture of her eyebrows, and it holds still a couple dozen centimeters above her, still like time just stopped around it. It is then that she guides both slabs back to her leg, hovering her palms closer until they fit snugly.
"Transmogulate."
Veigar visibly jolts in her peripheral view; sparks of magenta paint glowing spirals around the boards and she coaxes them to thin down until they look more like sticks. He's sitting upright, intrigued enough she can actually taste the warm, bright yellow of his curiosity. It swims in the roof of her mouth, sticking like honey; melts in her palate and floods her tastebuds with sweet, flowery enlightment. She could close her eyes and swim in it.
Her concentration falters, one of the sticks falls to the floor with a loud clang.
She jumps, he does too; the honey dissipates, sours to a spike of burning fear that makes Lulu's mouth water. she struggles to hold the roll into place, her magic wobbling; only when that shot of fire disappears can she bring the fallen piece back to her leg.
What was that yellow?! Her tongue craves another taste of it.
She shakes her head, trying to stir it back to context; she blinks three, maybe four times, recalibrating her mind.
"I'm sorry. I got distracted," Again, she continues before he can retort. I don't want to hear his questions or remarks. "Grow."
She pulls her fingers into claws, and as they close and tighten, the wood warps; fibrous tendrils, like tree roots, extend from its sides, enclosing her leg in a mesh of curves and spirals; leaves and moss bloom between the creases like whatever tree that wood came from had just revived at the will of her mana. She snaps the excess bandaging away from the roll with a pull of her forearm. "Enormibus," she mumbles, frowning; eyes squint as more fabric weaves itself into existence, extending the bandage enough that she can will it into poking through the spaces in the mesh, wrapping around it.
Her temples pulse from the abuse of mana and she dreads the migraine that will surely follow. She should have brought her staff. Her fingertips burn, a sting like the legs of hundreds of tiny ants crawls up from them to her wrists while she ties the finishing knot.
She releases. Only then does she notice the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the fact she was holding her breath. She exhales with a loud puff and inhales like she was about to drown; the oxygen makes her lungs burn, the living room surrounded in a dark haze. She coughs a couple times, bending forward; her hands, how they sting as she holds her belly. Gods.
When she opens her eyes, though, the structure's held in place perfectly. The wooden cage holds snug, firm, but substantially lighter. It looks kinda stylish, too. Certainly better than the bulky, clunky appearance of a regular splint. She calls for a couple small purple flowers to sprout and open from the creases before what feels like a knife being jammed to both her temples makes her stop. "Jeez, should've used my staff."
Gazing at Veigar reveals him slack-jawed. His hands hold his knees; his eyes are wider than she's seen them so far; he doesn't look the part of a sarcastic know-it-all, or a tired intellectual, not this time— something so genuine shines on that expression of awe.
"So, what's my grade?" She says, voice breathy. A pair of imaginary fists is steadily smashing the sides of her skull in a perfect four-four beat. She swallows and it hurts. Everything is burning.
"I have no idea what the hell you were trying to do, but whatever that is, you sure as hell aced it," he says, and his voice holds that same honest cadence his face has, and it blankets her like a warm gust of daisies and sunshine.
She smiles, even if it makes her face want to rip itself off her skull.
"Come closer," Veigar adds. "I hate saying this so much— but I gotta take a look at that."
She chuckles dryly and hops off the chair; the world spins twice or thrice before she rebalances. She stumbles to the warlock, hikes her pants a wee bit more so he can compare both legs.
"An alternate method for your fracture," she lectures. Her voice is mildly raspy. "The normal splint is heavy. Maintenance twice a day was murdering my shoulders." She extends her left leg a bit so he can see. "Tired and true, but kinda cumbersome for a yordle, too..."
He tilts his torso forward, observing. "Huh. And the other one?"
"A method using faerie magic." Lulu turns forty-five degrees to better display her little experiment. It looks neat, and she's warm inside; it's almost been worth the pain of mana overuse. "A modded stint. It still holds the leg, but the approach is different, more like a hollow cast. Looks like a boot, see?" As she shows it off, she realizes it indeed feels a lot lighter to move around, much to her excitement.
"The different disposition the wood makes it structurally lighter," Veigar says, his voice soft with intellectual delight. "The total volume of material is less and better distributed. That is actually clever," he finishes, staring up at her. "You've done it, miss Lulu. You've impressed this tired man."
"Finally, my life's greatest achievement," she says, laughing. It makes her cough and the imaginary hammers bashing her skull in go extra hard.
"But you overdid it," the warlock adds. She winces, loathing the fact he noticed. "I can tell mana abuse from a mile away. You know what you're doing with this magic. It's disgusting to admit, but it's the truth. You should know better than not using a channel for mana while sustaining spells for so long. So, I'm not impressed anymore." He glares at her, back to his usual manners.
"Oh no," she replies, rolling her eyes, "my life's greatest achievement, gone." He laughs—honestly laughs— and she's pleased he does.
"Alright, I'll go soft on you. Only because this is magic of a caliber I've never seen. Let's leave it at half-impressed."
"Fine," she says, dropping down to sit next to him. "Then I'll count it as an achievement, just not my life's greatest." She flashes him a cocky smirk, and he shakes his head; she can sense him trying to bury his amusement.
"Show me your hands," he commands, and she knows exactly why, and hates it, but knows it's unavoidable; she flops them atop his thighs. He doesn't even touch to examine them, just observes them coolly. The fingertips are reddened and dull.
"At least it's not bad. I've seen dark magic users explode entire limbs off from improper casting."
"Ew," she interjects. It's involuntary and she instantly regrets it. Something wet trickles down her nose, she sniffles it up and tastes rust. Gods damn it.
"Do better than this. It's as much a part of using magic as the spells themselves." He wobbles his leg and Lulu gets the message, withdrawing her hands. She tilts back, bringing her right palm to her face.
"Ah, fuck." He groans. She knows he can probably smell the blood; yordle noses pick things up faster than humans'. "Tell me this doesn't happen often, for Sun's sake."
"Um." The enchantress' voice is nasal from her pinching her nostrils shut. "I mean, not that often..."
"Not good enough. It should be a rarity." He sighs dejectedly. "I can't even walk to fetch you something to wipe with. Tch."
"'S fine. I can do it on my own." She ineptly stands up; she's still a bit dizzy and her walk to grab a couple towels to wipe with is more like lucky tumbling, stunted even further by the casts on her legs. She can feel his stare follow her all the way through, and it stews her in fuschia embarrassment. So much for impressing him.
She sits beside the shelf where the towels are stored, holding her head back until the nosebleed subsides.
A thought stabs her.
"I can't even walk to fetch you something to wipe with."
Did he want to help?!
Veigar scowls in her hold. She's doing her best—but he stands a full, intimidating head above her, and she can't really offer her as much support as she should as they painstakingly make their way to the bathing room all the way in the back. Lulu's left the water warming, knowing it would be the perfect temperature by the time they arrived. Every step is a complicated tango danced on clumsy arms and legs, hers too short, his too long; what should be a ten second walk stretches a good three minutes until they cross the threshold to the steamy chamber. Indeed, it's warmed up, a respite from the icy nights of Targon.
Another thirty excruciating seconds pass as Lulu helps him sit near the tub; she has to sink her legs up to her knees, the edges of her healer's robes and a chunk of her harem pants dipping in the water. But, they manage.
She climbs out, unhooks her little first aid box from the makeshift way she tied it to her torso for transport and props her shears out, poking her pinky finger under the bandaging and carefully cutting it open. The gauze over the actual wound holds a little blood, as expected; the stitching is coming along quite nicely, though.
"Will you let me try it, then?" She says, trying to slice the thick silence like her shears cut through the bandaging an instant prior.
"The what?" He answers. He's supported on his hands, dully staring at the roof in a vague attempt to ignore the inevitable; his black fur makes his silhouette almost dissolve in the shadows, denounced only by the warm gold of orbs Lulu has summoned and left in wait when she turned the heat on.
"The method I did today. On your leg. That's why I devised it in the first place." She paces around him, kneeling by his back. "Rest on me so you can free your hands up. I need you to undress."
She can see the way the fur around his nape fluffs up; his long ears flatten. He leans into her at a painful pace; she does her best to ease him, staying still and making no initiative to bring them closer than is needed for him to pull the garb up and above his head, but the point of contact of his shoulder and her own lights out with the familiar, instinctual heat of closeness; it launches a sharp jolt of delight up her spine in a physiological response she can't stop or help. Her jaw tightens.
The warlock props himself back up on his hands substantially faster than he approached her.
"Alright," she says, her voice flat. "I'll wash your leg now. Close your eyes and relax." Maybe you should tell yourself that.
She crawls back into the water, grabbing one of the bowls from its opposite edge and returning to him in long, heavy strides. A couple bowlfuls of water later she's carefully brushing his dark fur; the water makes it glisten, sparks of reflected light paint stars on its dark firmament, and she's so disappointed in herself, in the alienation she feels with him and him only, cause he's not human, cause her body cries to just touch him in any way, starved for kinship; her brows crumple in a troubled frown as she gently works soap through. It was about to mat and she has to be careful while easing the tangles; a stream of sticky red drips around his shin ending on a rather gross puddle on the floor. She's not gonna enjoy mopping that up. Dried blood stinks even worse than fresh.
She wants to think her hands tickle because of leftover malaise from her overdone spell, but deep down she knows that isn't true; that it's just feeling a kinsman on the pads of her fingers. She swallows. She wonders if the healers in Bandle ever have this concern and concludes that can't be the case, simply cause healers at Bandle, or any other colony in Runeterra for that matter, aren't this desperately isolated.
Once she is done with the broken shin, rinsed with another couple bowls of clean water, she moves to his other leg. Even the fur in there has gotten a bit greasy from his accumulated sweat and the oils of his skin; she scrubs it in slow circles and gradually rinses the rose scented soap off, drawing more circles as she works it off with the water. she dares not crawl up his thigh.
Just dipping her fingers on his fur, they pick up on the plethora of scars littered within; Lulu can't bring attention to them without feeling guilty, but she takes note of them regardless. There are more near his ankle, tighter to each other; she attempts not to linger too long on them, fearing he'll take notice. Her mind breaks out again with questions about how those ended up there. She hadn't gone back to ponder it in a while and it kicks like a boulder smashing into her mindscape.
"You wash up from here," she says monotonously, he just sighs in agreement. She circles around him once more, sitting behind him and pouring water all over his back; his fluffy fur sticks to his skin, and like before, she paints slow ovals on it, washing dust and sweat off.
His back radiates body heat, Lulu's face flushes when she presses her palms to it and feels the muscles and the scarce subcutaneous fat and the little bumps of his spine; something boils in her tummy, bursts from it, rippling in waves of heat. She finds Veigar attractive—much to her chagrin, and even if she'd find him better if he was less crabby—and the tandem of that and touch starvation is making his skin scorch her hands. They burn worse, fanned by painful sympathy, when she feels the long lines of his scars. She kneads to the base of his spine, no further; her hands won't cooperate this time, and she decides maybe she can just spot clean the laceration on his thigh after he washes himself. She helps the fur on his head instead, and while rinsing the soap off, holding his weight a bit, she can feel where his muscles tense once her hands make contact, and that tension makes it worse.
She forces her mind to shut down while rinsing his head.
With a whistle, Pix is summoned, then tasked with fetching a bucket from the kitchen; she can fill that up with water and leave it to him. She props a bowl in for good measure. "Try cleaning the rest yourself. I'll take over your other wound after, don't worry."
He nods, pours a bowl of water over his chest, wetting his hand in it and with it, his face. Lulu notices how his ribs and belly reveal when the fur flattens against them and, in that instant, when her eyes path down it and below his bellybutton, she admits she can't take any more of this, and scoots a meter away from him, looking at the wall in pursuit of any comfort.
"Tell me when you're done."
He answers her with a flat mm-hmm, and so she loses herself in the textured wall, hearing only the sloshing of the water and the foam when he slathers soap on himself; and she doesn't want to think about it, she really doesn't, but still her brain makes her, it forces the image of the water raining down his chest and belly, the foam pooling as he runs his hands throughout—
"It does feel a lot lighter. I think I can let you slip on inadequate spell summoning now that I can feel it up close— it even feels more solid, like a cast. You know your healing."
He looks very fluffy, having just dried with towels and magic. She won't say it, but it makes him look rather cute.
"Can I get my grade, then?" She jests, resting her forearms on the edge of the bed. Her staff is planted comfortably against the nightstand. She's truly felt the difference magicking with it.
"Hm. Eight out of ten. One point deduction for inadequate mana use, and another point deduction cause I feel like it." He gently turns the leg and she's delighted at the added mobility this new approach provides him. She's honestly pleased with the score, too. She was expecting less from him.
"Sweet," she says, smiling at him. She'll have to get him some appropriately sized crutches; the less she has to carry him around, the better for her, and the added support appears good enough to let him hop his way around the house, even to the restroom—so he can taper off the dreaded basin. She figures a polymorph on human crutches could serve the purpose.
"You still owe me psychological compensation for the bath, though."
She chuckles. "I'll make time for a couple rounds of Sprouts tomorrow. I promise. I need to bathe now, though. Seize the chance there are no stranger men in the washing room anymore."
She leaves without granting him a gap to respond— Perhaps, it's for the best he doesn't.
She cannot sleep, like she could not peacefully cleanse. Her mind is seized by Veigar's presence, jutting out all else. Something's boiling underneath her skin, it crawls up and down her spine. The warm tub water felt uncomfortably hot; the smell of the blood she mopped, that should've be intense enough to spur her nausea, was less invasive than her mind churning glimpses of him ceaselessly; rubbing herself clean almost hurt, her skin too aware of the touch of her own fingers, the sloshing of the water only projecting more details of his body beneath her eyelids.
She twists on Soraka's bed for the twentieth time, perchance thirtieth; Pix has given up on sharing a bed with her, as per usual, and huddled underneath one of her hats with a couple slaps of his insect arms and a handful of choice words in Fae. He tried to soothe her with a pinch of faerie dust, even, but the sweating hasn't subsided and the tingles in her stomach didn't simmer; nor has she stirred any less. She's hyper aware of her sleeping gown and the bedsheets; she can feel each fibre grind against each hair of her short fur; and in trying to hug herself seeking any ease that'll lull her to sleep—Goddess Moon is she sleepy— she's found her pores point into goosebumps. Hot, but also cold.
Disgruntled, she sits up with a whine. Her head weighs a ton, pulls her spine; eyes burn from somnolence, she feels feverish, the nightly air making her shiver. Her mouth is dry like the atmosphere further up Targon. Maybe some water will placate her.
The stone floor's cool sends a second chill upwards from the soles of her bare feet. She hugs herself tight, confronting the tingles it sends head on; she doesn't have energy to fetch a coat on her way to the kitchen.
Something pokes her forearms and, when she checks herself, she sees the two bumps her anatomy's making on her bed gown and cringes. Must be the cold. Please be the cold.
She navigates her way to the kitchen at a turtle's pace, fatigue making her limbs weigh in excess; they strain climbing up her little steps to reach the sink handle—Targon having an aqueduct is something that still surprises her time to time— and once water is running she just looks at it for a few seconds, her brain lagging.
She feels sticky.
Her hand wanders under the nightgown and to her thigh. She isn't sure if she actually has a fever, maybe a cold settling in, maybe just falling sick from all her duties; she hopes the sticky won't be blood and she was so caught up in her work she forgot Goddess Moon's calling. And it is sticky, and she's already dreading the rust, but when she brings her fingers to her nose, it doesn't have the revolting iron reek she's grown to endure due to sheer dedication to her craft.
That isn't blood.
That is—
The years of accumulated loneliness. The fact the blood Goddess Moon charges every month does not happen without reason; it is the direct consequence of a process in her body—like it is in the body of all specks of Dust of the Moon. When she and Soraka dealt with Moon patients, they would ask the date of Moon's last calling, and if the goddess stopped calling it was because the patient had—
She notices the water's running. She reaches for a ceramic bowl, filling it up halfway so she can close the tap. Swallowing is hard; her throat's cinched up, her brain not on the water or the cold or the ceramic, instead recounting all the moons she's spent alone, never beckoned to this sensation. Because she'd left the city, then spent most time around humans—Kin hadn't sheltered her, and it wasn't easy entering a colony as an outlaw without help. This sensation. Arousal. She hasn't thought of it in a long, long time.
Gross.
Her face is all scrunched up when she puts the bowl down. Disgust. It tastes like cooked lemon peels, all bitter and unsavoury. Arousal doesn't taste like that. It tastes like space and the stars and the water in the bathtub and honey and the smell of roses. She's just afraid of it, really. Accustomed to rejection and dedication to survival and her profession so she doesn't have to face the reminders she is a member of a species, meant to be born, mature, reproduce and die.
He is your patient and nothing more.
You're just lonely. You're just lonely. You don't truly need this. You don't truly want this. You're just an animal. Just flesh. Don't give in to the flesh. We can be alone. We have been alone.
She wishes he left, so she didn't have to taste galaxies. She also wishes he'll stay, so she can taste them even closer. This is no good.
Then, there's a knock on the door.
She warily makes her way to her abode's entrance, cautious to make little noise, unsure of what awaits. The Lunari messenger came a mere two days ago with money— it could not be him. She freezes thinking maybe it's a Solari soldier— but, in the middle of the night, it seems unlikely.
She cracks the wooden door open just enough to peek through. A Lunari woman stands behind; judging by her garb and makeup, probably some other envoy or worker for goddess Moon.
"Are you Lulu?" She whispers in Targon. Lulu's noticed the Solari and Lunari have a slightly different inflection to their words; she finds that intriguing.
"Yes. What can I do for you?" She answers. She can't tell whether she's feeling anxiety, drowsiness, leftover arousal, or what.
The Lunari woman crouches to meet her eye to eye; she finds the gesture both considerate and patronising.
"Soraka requests your presence. She sent me with a message." She clears her throat. "She wants your help with the case she is attending, as she thinks you will find it interesting; and she feels she could use your perspective."
The woman then shrugs lightly; moonlight paints a halo around her platinum blonde hair, her ponytail so straight and neatened it looks like flowing silk. "She obviously could send no warning beforehand, it's dangerous for Lunari to lurk here." Lulu can feel the disgust and hatred, pulsing neon just under her tongue. "I will help gathering your belongings if you need it. I was informed of another yordle here. I can assist with his transport, too."
Lulu quickly releases the door's locks and safeguards, not wishing the stranger to be out in the open— not in a Solari lot. "Come in," she beckons, and the woman slithers seamlessly through the crack in the door and closes it in such silent manner that's when Lulu understands she is probably an assassin; the sorceress can't help thinking how many houses this woman has slithered into, no knock, no permission, no consent; only blood, left to congeal in the nightly breeze.
She shudders, suddenly that much more aware of the cold and the darkness. She doesn't really feel like getting dressed, or packing, or walking the hours-long trail to the Lunari settlement; most of all, she doesn't want to wake Veigar, have him follow her around. She despises her sense of responsibility, taught to her so dutifully by Soraka. Things were easier in the Glade, where she didn't have to think of things like consequences or social repercussions; and she's suddenly washed in a wave of melancholy, longing for a life without complications that's been so far gone.
Oh, the woman probably can't see in the dark.
She gives a short, sharp whistle; when Pix appears from Soraka's quarters, he is fluttering lazily. Lulu can smell his disgruntlement all the way from the living room. She spreads the tips of her index and thumb, summoning a very portable light orb; turns to the woman as soon as her familiar lands atop her hair, clearly not pleased with current events.
"Hold this for light," she says, stretching her hand over to the assassin.
The woman cracks a smirk, observing it in wonder; her fingers stretch to touch it cautiously. It hovers to her palm, floating a couple centimetres above. "What a curiosity," she mumbles.
Lulu snaps her fingers and the light dims down, just enough to give her guest sight without risk.
"Please wait here," she tells the Lunari. "I will wake the other yordle. I could use your assistance, just not yet. That man is my patient, and he cannot walk."
"Oh," she answers shrugging. Lulu sees she is now fiddling with the little light; she can taste the pastel rose of her diversion at the trinket. "I can carry him in my back. He shouldn't be too heavy."
Lulu tries to resist the devious pout the mental image of the warlock, bundled on the woman's back like a baby in their carrier, brings her; but she cannot, so she just nods to the woman, gives her a little curtsy. "Excuse me for a moment. Do you want some food or water while you wait?"
Her guest shakes her head no, and with that, Lulu makes her way to her master's room, readying herself first. She'll have to pack spare healer garments, supplies, maybe? She shouldn't travel in her robes as to not contaminate them; she'll have to pick a travel dress and a coat. How many day wear dresses would suffice? What would be a good pair of shoes to pack? She still has her bags... she'll need to test how much she can carry.
She doesn't bother binding her hair; walking around won't require it, and she appreciates its extra safeguard from the Targon breeze. She grabs her travel bag, the same old companion she used to climb up Targon and cruise Valoran. That bag's seen more than most of Bandle City. Teemo gave it to her. It's military green, and she hates the color, but she used to have bigger concerns than to waste mana making it more suited to her tastes. Maybe she should now. When they arrive at the new settlement, she'll make it all the colors she can fit.
Appropriately dressed, she heads to her own bedroom— and a bomb of butterflies falls in the pit of her stomach, bursting open upon impact; tingles travel her spine and her face and her scalp; gather and electrify her face. She lightly rustles the bead curtain on her way in. His long ear twitches, alerted, and it perks the corners of her lips up. It's just so cute.
She notices one of her pillowcases scrunched to the bedside; picks it up in the way to him. A stain dirties the fabric unevenly, sprayed in droplets and pooled in a bigger puddle in the middle, like he spilled something on it and cleaned whatever it was right after.
She decides she'd rather not know, throwing it to her laundry basket. Gods know when she'll get to wash that.
Her fingers gently coil around his shoulder; it's electrifying, but she can't lose herself to that little pleasure; she squeezes, whispering. "Veigar. Veigar, wake up."
He groans. Lulu can feel the way his muscles tense as he lands on reality. This man is so stressed.
He inhales; stretches his back muscles still laying down. "I see no sunlight. May I ask, then, what on Runeterra has you waking? Better be a good reason— for your sake."
"We're leaving. Like, right now."
He looks to her over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"
"Get dressed, I am packing up. We're leaving."
That sigh is so red it makes Lulu's mouth flood in self defense. "Fuck's sake," he groans.
"We are headed to the Lunari settlement," she adds, hoping the context will get him to actually start stretching and preparing for the voyage. "Didn't you want to go there originally?"
"You're not helping me understand, Lulu," he deadpans.
"A Lunari is here to pick us up. Soraka wants us at the Lunari settlement. She wants my help with her patient. But I can't leave you here. So you are coming with me. We are leaving. Right now."
The warlock sits up straining; Lulu assists him placing her hand to his back. What percentage of his emotions she can sense is mashed into a crockpot of defeat, anger, exhaustion and, surprisingly, satisfaction.
"You need to cover that Solari clothing. Don't think our diplomat out there will be happy about it," she says. "I'll go pack up. Hmm, you'll need a bag, too." She's thought that last part out loud, but she can't be bothered to care or correct herself right now. They should be out of Solari territory before dawn.
"That's something we agree in, at least," he drones. His voice is hoarse with the characteristic grit of someone just awakened. "Wait. How am I supposed to travel?"
Oh, how she loves this development. "She will carry you," she tells the warlock, beaming.
"What." He practically spits that question at her.
"The descent is not easy. You probably know that. She will carry you."
"Fuck my life," he interrupts, dragging a hand across his face. Lulu snorts. "Stop laughing at my misery, Lulu. That's rather unbecoming of a healer, no?"
She takes note of the fact he's addressed her by name now; stows that little nugget of information for later. She's starting to earn his mercy— she probably did impress him with her experimental splint technique. And she loves that. She wonders if that's just the lust speaking for her.
"We can reach a compromise," she says, walking backwards. She can't spare any more time on this. "Bear with it, and I promise you a pair of crutches when we reach the Lunari. Your leg should be good enough for that."
He sighs. "Deal. Do not use this for your advantage, trickster."
And that makes her smile at him, impish. "Wait here— I'll bring bags. Probably ask the girl outside for help packing all my stuff."
"Alright," he says. "Mind if I piss one last time before we go?"
She chuckles. "Use the basin. But don't waste time, we'll get gutted by Solari if we're not out of here by dawn."
"I know," he says with a yawn. "You stop wasting your time, then."
She nods eagerly, pacing out of the room, mentally making a list of what she'll need for a stay outside of her home. How long could this last? How much could she pack? Would she be able to return if she needs anything else? She wonders if Teemo's backpack can hold both her belongings and whatever Veigar may need. She should probably get Lunari robes for him upon arrival...