Encounter at the Bazaar

The bazaar, for all that it offered from near and far, was a place only rarely visited by those of high birth. Perhaps, Neryn thought, this was why Silendiel, still antsy at the idea of being seen in public in a state such as the one she was left in following their unions, had nevertheless dragged her out of the embassy in the late afternoon, early evening sun. Still proudly clad in the specially made garb which allowed her some measure of decorum, propriety, and yet also to bear the bulge of her stomach. An hour’s wait had diminished it significantly, and it might be nothing more than a pleasant curve jutting an inch or two out by evening. By morning, she would be smooth, flat, soft, once more. Ready to, once again, take it to the hilt.

Such thoughts seemed far away to Silendiel, however, as she flitted from stall to stall, picky in what she seemed ready to accept for the task she had set herself. Neryn trailed after, a few steps behind, finding that the merchants reacted more amicably when the first thing they saw were Silendiel’s refined features, not a massive night elf, skin and hair and facial markings a kind of visual scream for how they stood out in Silvermoon’s streets.

More than once, Silendiel, examining some carefully made bowl, presumably yet another candidate for washing basin, muttered something. Upon hearing much the same thing for the fourth time, meaning finally reached Neryn’s mind. Her little sun made it clear that it would be much easier, for the both of them, if they could only stay at her mansion. When the mumbling came again, then, Neryn placed her hand, fingers splayed, against the small of Silendiel’s back. Pulled her little sun closer, hand snaking around the small sin’dorei’s flank until fingers came to rest against the side of that still considerable dome. Held close in a possessive way that, she could tell, Silendiel was not entirely certain she wished for, in public. But she did not withdraw. Did not push Neryn’s fingers away, so they remained.

“The priestess has advised us to remain in the embassy. She sees something coming,” Neryn said.

“I continue to wonder what she sees. Save a chance to have me more closely watched. Under her thumb,” Silendiel replied. “To feel as if she has me as her personal handmaiden, a claw in the higher social sphere of the city.”

“It can be that. While also being for our own good.”

Silendiel tutted. Moved on from one stall without so much as granting the owner the favor of a look, to instead inspect a display of four polished drinking vessels of metal, almost beaker-like in their simplicity, but smoother still. No beak at all. Each a little smaller than the previous, but in so minute a fashion that it was difficult to see. One sensed their difference, more than anything. Of raw, shiny, silvery-gray material.

“For traveling, my Lady,” the hopeful merchant chimed in as Silendiel tentatively prodded a finger against the side of one.

“Rather boring to look at, are they not?”

Before the merchant could offer any words, Neryn spoke up. “Decoration is less important than having water in the first place. When you are out somewhere, far from settlements.”

“But we are not,” Silendiel said. She sighed out a breath, picking up one of the vessels, turning it in her hand. Then set it down. “Something else.” Without sparing the merchant another thought, she moved on, seeming to pick up a thread from earlier without any obvious transition point. “I have guards. Loyal servants. It seems unlikely that we should have to stay in the embassy for security reasons.”

“She sees what we do not. Knows a hundred fragments, puts them together. We—”

“Do not,” Silendiel said. Wrinkled her nose. Set down a rather more ostentatious porcelain cup, its edge rimmed with gold. A somewhat awkward phoenix painted with a rather more tame yellow on two sides of it. “Yes. I understand, my dearest Neryn. And yet, at the same time, I understand nothing. But then, perhaps a mere servant should not concern herself with understanding.”

“You are not, and never have been, a servant,” Neryn said. “Nor will you ever be. This is only some incomprehensible fancy.”

Silendiel pursed her lips, looked ahead at nothing for several seconds, then turned to face her beloved sentinel. Words died on her tongue in that moment, golden eyes drawn, instead, to a small and purposeful procession. A cadre of guards, an arcane golem lumbering in tow, with a lower-ranked officer at the head of it all. Eyes flickering back to Neryn, she took two steps forward, in the direction of the still approaching guards. “Let me. Please.”

As could perhaps be expected, Silendiel felt and heard more than saw Neryn straightening behind her. Squaring up, rising to her full height, falling quiet, ominous. Assuming threatening stillness like putting on a comfortable coat – for her. For no one else. Silendiel took a quiet breath, trying to relax. To assume her imperious mantle, setting aside what she still carried. Arms around her belly could be assumed to be instinctive sheltering of a pregnancy, much advanced and unannounced, but, still. So she waited for the guards to approach. There was no subtlety to be detected anywhere. They knew where she and Neryn were, and headed for them by the most direct path possible, avoiding what stalls they had to.

The Lieutenant, Silendiel’s eyes scanning his insignia and the helmet he held under his left arm to deduce his rank, came to a stop before her. Black-haired, young, pale green eyes, still. Odd.

“Lady Flameborn?” He queried, but, before having it confirmed, already bowed his head just so, indicating the required level of respect.

“Lieutenant,” Silendiel said.

“Ashford, my Lady,” he said. “Lady Silversong pleaded your case, and it is on her behalf that I’ve come. Tasked with your rescue from the claws of the perfidious kaldorei.”

“Perfidious,” Neryn said, quietly, her tone indicating that she tasted the word as she spoke it, finding it unpalatable.

The Lieutenant’s eyes moved to the towering kaldorei for a moment, then, taking a small but nevertheless noticeable, steeling breath, turned his attention back to Silendiel. “You ought to come with me, my Lady.”

Under the pretense of considering the man’s request, Silendiel’s gaze slowly traveled down the two rows of four city guards. To the golem, humming quietly, whirring quieter still. Behind her, Neryn shifted. In some innocent fashion, presumably, but nevertheless one that triggered a response from every guard, and the golem. Shields raised, crossbows clicking, placed into depressions in each shield designed to couch it. Eight bolts pointed at Neryn, behind the Lieutenant. The golem, even without command, clearly processing the combat stance of its allies in some dull way, slowly unfolding its massive, bear paw-like, articulated hands. Taking a wider stance. Each of them seemed to expect an instant, violent response from Neryn.

A tense few seconds passed, hanging between them. To her credit, Silendiel thought, Neryn did not actually react. She did not instantly become aggressive, or take up the invitation to fight. She did not defiantly roar, or even move. Instead, her presence remained solid, a little behind and to the side of Silendiel. Who, after a few moments, manipulated her expression into one of cold, pearling joy. A terribly light, high-pitched laugh emerged from her throat, one that could, if carried on, threaten to tilt over into territory that would seem rather more unhinged than in control. She clipped it before getting there, having achieved her desired result. A marked easing of tension in the air. The Lieutenant, certainly, but his guards as well, all perhaps reflecting for a moment on what had just transpired.

One relaxed movement did not warrant such a response. Certainly not when the noblewoman they were supposed to rescue seemed to find the situation amusing, at least in part.

“Lieutenant,” Silendiel said. She took a step to her right, one which remained relaxed, casual, so that she could raise one hand to place it upon Neryn’s left forearm, near the elbow. “You may return to Lady Silversong and inform her that I am well. That I appreciate her concern. But, also, I must insist that you impress upon her that I am where I wish to be. Do you understand?”

For a long moment, the Lieutenant looked at her. Pale green eyes unmoving, almost dull, his thoughts evidently churning, coming around to the reality of the situation. A flash of something both surprised and mildly disapproving, before being covered up by professional neutrality, reached Silendiel’s eyes. An expression she had expected, but nevertheless one that felt like a little needle sinking into her heart.

“Yes, my Lady,” he said, at length. Another moment passed, and then he took a step back, bowed his head again, and turned toward the eight guards. And the golem. His commands sank into the background as Silendiel turned to Neryn more fully, looking up at her. Chest rising as she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Audibly. As the guards filtered away, out of the market, once more.

“Silversong?” Neryn’s piercing, white eyes remained on the guards and the golem as they made their way back to the archway where they had come from.

“Lady Surielle Silversong. Suri,” Silendiel said. “She is… we were allies. From time to time. When it came to political matters, we worked together. I did not think she would instigate something like this, on my behalf.”

“She acts on the basis of rumor,” Neryn said. “Rumor you instigated. That we are invaders.”

It was perhaps not meant as an attack. Silendiel focused upon Neryn’s face, and saw that her sentinel remained entirely absorbed by the business of tracking the retreat of the cadre of guards, and not at all by what she said, or what it might mean. Nevertheless, those casual words caused some strange, inward-turning crunch of **** in her chest, like waves from opposing oceans crashing together. From that roiling place, numbing pinpricks spread to her arms, and to her collarbone, and cheeks. Made her take a breath, and loose it, slowly.

That breath was what made Neryn, at last, recenter her attention on Silendiel. A momentary narrowing of eyes as she tried to understand what would cause the noblewoman to so deflate, and then, perhaps, a realization. Neryn sighed, as well, draping an arm around Silendiel’s shoulders. Wordless, just then. Words would not help in the way that physical proximity might, given time.