Conclusion

The abortive climax of the conflict between Silvermoon City and the kaldorei embassy guttered and died before any blows were exchanged, before blood was shed, and before the blossoming, verdant embellishments of the embassy building had been torn down. Quietly, Lady Surielle Silversong continued the negotiations that had prevented the embassy’s destruction on a weekly basis, sometimes multiple times a week. With the priestess-ambassador at first, at least nominally, performatively, publicly greeting Iralis each time she arrived at the leaf-covered building, but more and more, then, openly, with the new Lieutenant of the embassy sentinel guard.

Anyone paying even cursory attention to the resolution of the issue, then, became instantly aware that the strident noblewoman did not once complain, did not instigate new sanctions against the kaldorei, despite leaving the building clearly having been in some sort of fight. Often bruised – always, in truth. Just as she left it in a newly fashioned dress, of a purple so dark as to be like an enchanted night sky, with silver, not gold, filigree and patterning. More damning, perhaps, was that Lady Silversong had taken up the habit of Lady Silendiel Flameborn, now sharing the practical design of the latter’s garments, where the whole of the stomach, and the lower ribs, was left open, bare, devoid of so much as a fastening strap. All so that the firm sin’dorei stomach could easily swell with, be laden down with, the copious, carnal gift of their chosen kaldorei.

Surielle began to stay the night at the embassy, now and then. Until, at last, rekindling a long-lost friendship, she took to spending lazy afternoons, evenings, nights, and mornings, then whole days, in the company of Silendiel. And Neryn. The Flameborn mansion had turned into a place one expected to find kaldorei, and so, it was perhaps marginally less incriminating when Surielle and Istaria just happened to be there, both at the same time. And, next to the increasingly pregnant Silendiel, Surielle’s occasional waddling, bruised and contented, down to early evening breakfast, or a quiet night in the company of Silendiel and Neryn, seemed less ostentatious than it would have been if she had to leave the embassy.

The two of them in one place inevitably brought those who had business with them to the Flameborn mansion, and as more and more people came and went, and brought the news that there was, at all times, at least one kaldorei present, often more, and that they had not suffered any for the presence of the purple-skinned, savage kin, the mansion became a bastion, a meeting place, not a distant asylum. Several notables were, in the Flameborn mansion, introduced to the priestess, after which they seemed content to take their business to the embassy. And so, through Silendiel and Surielle’s quiet efforts, the kaldorei embassy came to be a small, but accepted part of the political landscape of Silvermoon City.

And, as this process went on, as Silendiel became more and more comfortable with open displays of affection between Neryn and her, the relationship went from something discussed in illicit gossip to an open secret. And then, finally, a simple fact, one which might be mentioned on the same level as one described the qualities of a chair. Remarkable in specific ways, if it was an exquisite chair, but not unusual. And, clearly, Silendiel’s growing stomach as physical proof, it was an excellent, extremely potent chair indeed.

One early evening, Neryn having long ago surrendered her trained instinct to stand guard to instead lie stretched out on a chaise longue, Silendiel employing her as a sort of pillow against which to luxuriate, Surielle came down from the guest rooms that now, near enough, had become her personal quarters.

There was a tinge, a twist of emotion, sometimes, when she saw Neryn’s hand draped over Silendiel’s flank, possessive, comfortable, that made her wish for Ista to do the same. It would take time to tame the savage, her savage, and, on balance, she had made much progress already. And still desired a certain kind of lover. One that she wondered whether Ista could still be, if she was softer, more caring, like the purple-haired, red-marked, massive kaldorei that Silendiel now called her mate.

Surielle grimaced, just so, her backside thoroughly bruised, hammered raw by impact after hard impact the previous morning, before going to sleep. From looking in the mirror before descending, she knew that a red going on light blue bruise colored both her cheeks, and her nose. Her throat had a similar mark upon it. The product of the morning’s passions. Still, protectively, she caressed her bulging belly, even if the passage of the day had lessened its swell enormously.

Ista had gone, after staying the night, as she always did. Merely having her stay at all had been a struggle, but one that Surielle had won, at length. The victory was to be grasped, captured, in Ista’s arms, all night. Nothing like the tender embrace which Neryn reserved for the very pregnant Silendiel, but progress nonetheless. Given time, she might be able to keep Ista precisely as brutal and wild as she desired, and yet tame her to the point that she could be a suitable social companion, too.

Silendiel, with some difficulty, rose from lying down, Neryn rising with her, allowing a heavy lean upon the strong sentinel. “The lunar festival,” Silendiel said, continuing a conversation they had been in the middle of the previous morning, before Ista’s desires had drawn Surielle away.

“I have spoken with the priestess,” Surielle said. She carefully rubbed her bruised left cheek, unable to hold back a genuine, joyful smile. As much it ached, she recalled Ista’s lips against that very spot, too. Teeth, too. But lips msot of all. “She and the Captain will attend, from the embassy. And she expects that Ista will, too. And you.” Surielle looked to Neryn, who nodded, at those last two words.

“And I shall have the rooms prepared,” Silendiel said, exhaling, settling back against Neryn more completely. Her own protective arm around the swell of her belly was joined by one of Neryn’s. “One for each. Privacy. Though I still wonder how you convinced them.”

“They convinced themselves, Silly,” Surielle said. She wet her lips, and then reached for the mug of tea that stood ready for her. Silendiel’s staff had well learned her habits and desires. After a drink, she continued. “Each their own private room, under the cover of attending your lunar celebration. Each just happening to find themselves very near to an embassy sentinel, who found the room by sheer accident.”

Silendiel puffed out an amused breath. “Never had I imagined that we should be the supervisors of the intermarriage of sentinel and sin’dorei nobility.” She closed her eyes at the caress of her cheek, by Neryn.

“Me, neither,” Surielle said. She took the mug in two hands, and held it to her cheek, where the heat drowned out the dull ache. One day, in not so terribly long, she might sit as Silendiel did now, save Ista might growl and pace more than Neryn, who seemed content merely to physically demonstrate protectiveness and possessiveness by way of caress, and kiss, and comfortably resting hands and fingers.

One day. Soon. When the city had come around, as she knew it would.