Predictable

Other than having, once, had broadly similar goals and stances on political matters, Silendiel and Surielle’s loose alliance, she realized now, had been based on similarities simpler still. They were both the last of their lineage, following the Scourge’s decimation of the sin’dorei. They both inherited grand mansions, miraculously spared in the ****, and came to head families of considerable power, with considerable assets, at a young age. Having never been expected to or, really, trained to shoulder such responsibility.

They had diverged not terribly long ago. When the kaldorei embassy opened, when Silendiel had, in retrospect, been bored and looking for a new cause to champion, and had found one in challenging the embassy. When Liriel had been hired. When, crucially, Iralis had seen something in her, had seen through her, in some frighteningly profound, penetrating, accurate way. When Neryn had been planted in her mansion, a trap so obvious that it seemed, looking back, ludicrous that she fell into it. But she had been starved for a certain kind of attention, and had been lying to herself about it, and so, had had no defenses at all. In so many ways, her guard was always up. But not against a kaldorei actually appearing in her home, challenging her. There had been no fortifications at all against such raw, simple warfare – not something one of her noble peers would ever have thought to do.

Iralis did. And now, they were, her and Neryn together, going to visit Lady Surielle Silversong, attempting to convince her that Silendiel, upstanding, proper, noble Silendiel, actually wanted the apparent depravity. That she wished for Neryn to assfuck her into the ground until her butt and thighs were black and blue from the attention. Which she did. Not that she could tell Surielle, as the situation was. Suri, who had never had the kind of tastes that Silendiel enjoyed. Whose tastes, as far as could be discerned with the efforts of a few cursory, discreet spies, amounted to occasionally taking someone into her bedroom and closing the door. And then emerging again a little while later, flushed, satisfied. Without visible bruises, or a belly bulging with anything.

It was this woman, conventional to the extent that a noblewoman could be, that Silendiel stood before, Neryn two steps behind her, having been let into a mansion quite similar to her own, grand banners, white marble, blood red, white, and gold colors everywhere. But there were no lounging chairs – no chairs at all. They were stood, so as to unsubtly communicate that the meeting would be short.

Expecting this, Silendiel had arranged how she and Neryn would stand. So that Neryn would be present, but clearly not the focus of the conversation. Behind her. That was the intent. Something to signal to Surielle that Silendiel was not under anyone’s spell, and was not **** into saying anything she did not want to, without actually making such a garish confession verbally.

Lady Silversong’s family had radiant, shimmering, chestnut-brown hair, which she had been blessed with, too. Golden, sharp eyes, with the restoration of the Sunwell. As so many others. There was a softer, more rounded quality to Suri’s face than Silendiel saw in many of her kin, or in herself, but her once-ally commanded all the haughty airs, every shred of arrogance in the presence of one of the purple savages, that Silendiel had once embodied and embraced. The single, sharp feature of Suri’s was her nose, which she wielded by looking down along its bridge at anyone who displeased her. That evening, thanks to Neryn’s height, it turned out to be impossible to physically look down upon the kaldorei, but like a spreading stain, it was clear from Surielle’s expression that she wished Neryn removed.

All the arrogance, the haughty self-assurance that she was right, was what Silendiel hoped against hope that she might penetrate with a simple truth. One she had not arranged with Neryn beforehand, one she was not, still, entirely sure they had decided to share with each other, but certainly one that might rattle Suri enough that she could be made to understand.

“I love her,” Silendiel said. “And she loves me.” Pleading was beneath her, but an entreating tone, a slight forward lean, a momentary abandonment of the straight-backed, confident approach to every interaction, could be permitted.

Surielle’s response was to wrinkle that sharp nose of hers. Turn judging, golden eyes on Neryn, who seemed, in the home of someone less charitable, rather more awkward. Giant, towering, in a way where one might worry that she would barge into priceless cabinets, or vases. Knock down sculptures, or statuary.

“Where is your previous fire, Silendiel?” Surielle turned her eyes back down to Silendiel.

A moment’s pause, for effect, and then Silendiel responded. “It was misplaced. The kaldorei are different, strangers, and I thought them invaders. But they are not. They do not **** anyone into anything.”

Much as Silendiel wielded the occasional silence for emphasis, or to reinforce an emotion, or let it drain, so did Surielle. She waited for those words to deflate, for the import invested in them to dissipate, and only then responded. Clearly untouched.

“I see base exploitation, Silendiel. An inexplicable vulnerability in you, taken advantage of with this union. It is sabotage of you – your family. Its name,” Surielle said. She continued before Silendiel could reply. “A deliberate attempt to sabotage your standing in the political circles of the kingdom. To destroy your family name. Which, what, should you couple with this creature, would become kaldorei? If the most sordid rumors are correct, she is entirely capable of making you bear her child.”

Faced with her own confident, former opinions, Silendiel, perhaps suffering from an extended absence from the political arena, had to gather herself. Fight down the urge to angrily retort at Suri’s accusations, and ignorance. Anger would accomplish nothing – she did not understand herself to be wrong in the ways she was profoundly wrong, and so, shouting her down would only solidify the divide between them. Again, Silendiel breathed.

“None of that is true, Suri,” she said. Employing the shortened form of her name as a blunt instrument, a reminder of their shared history and friendship in the form of a single word. “My lineage will be my lineage regardless of who I have a child by, and with, and—”

“I believe little of what you say, Silendiel. If you think this, and you so love this creature, why have you then not yet coupled so that you may bear her child? Are you leading the poor creature on, into danger, for your own satisfaction? Either you love her, or you are hostage to her manipulations. Captivity, or debased manipulation of some savage, for hedonistic pleasure.”

Silendiel had let the mask slip. Just a little. Enough to stare daggers at Surielle, who seemed to take this as some sort of victory.

“If it is the former, you need the help I have dispatched. If it is the latter, you need stopped. For your own good. In which case, you need the help I have dispatched, as well.”

“We are finished here,” Silendiel found herself saying. Superimposed atop the anger boiling in her mind, burning in her chest, and cheeks, making her feel jittery, there was a long-practiced diplomat persona taking over. Not to pretend to anyone that they were parting as friends, but rather something long-trained, long having laid in wait, coming out to remove her from the situation before she made it worse.

“I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Silversong,” Silendiel said, her tone frosty, cold somehow distilled from the frustration within and channeled through her voice. She turned from Surielle, offering Neryn a single look.

“As do I, Lady Flameborn,” Surielle said.

Silendiel did not need to turn around and gawp to sense the infuriating smile laced into those words. The self-assured, ironclad belief in being right. But nothing, at least not in that moment, would change that. Least of all an angry tirade.

Together, Neryn and her walked from the room, and the mansion.