The dwarf stood up from his cot and marvelled at the healed skin over his ribs. “I will never forget nor sully the power o’ elves. Thank ye.” He patted Galanör on the back as he left, though he might as well have hit the ranger with a shovel.
“Easy,” Aenwyn said, catching him before he fell into the cot. “You’re done for the day,” she stated.
Galanör shook his head, though he did accept her help to leave the tent. “There are more,” he croaked.
“You’ve been healing all morning,” Aenwyn argued. “You need to rest.”
“Just one more,” Galanör told her.
Aenwyn sighed. “At least see to one of our kin, a Centaur even. That was the third dwarf this morning - their natural resistance to magic is crippling you.”
Galanör was more than aware of their stubbornness. “I have a responsibility,” he said, regaining his breath. “My magic remains intact. I need to use it.”
“It’s use to no one if you can’t even keep your eyes open,” Aenwyn countered. “You have saved lives today, Galanör. Let that ease your burden while you rest.”
Galanör knew a losing argument when he heard one, and he did feel hollow from head to toe. “Perhaps something warm?”
Aenwyn smiled, though it was out of relief more than victory. “Rumour has it there is an excellent broth coming out of Sir Ruban’s camp.”
“The northmen?” Galanör said incredulously.
Aenwyn guided him away from the wounded and offered a playful shrug. “I was just as surprised as you are.”
After a few hours of sleep and a steaming hot broth - likely revered for the large quantity of salt the northmen added to it - Galanör was able to meet the rest of the day without feeling as if he was being turned inside out. The cold, however, still crept into his bones, reminding him that he was experiencing the drain that came with healing magic. He wished, now more than ever, that he had devoted more time to study and picked up his scimitars less.
His blue cloak billowed in the breeze, but his furs kept it weighted down around his shoulders as he slowly walked through the camp. He paused when the wounded came back into view, in the distance. It was tempting to return and give them all he had. Aenwyn, as usual, was right to caution over-use of his magic lest he end up lying amongst the wounded, adding to their number.
Walking among them was Vighon, easily seen thanks to his entourage and a lumbering Golem. The king was taking time to visit the wounded, offering them words of encouragement no doubt. Galanör held a moment of pride, recalling all too well the young rogue Vighon Draqaro had once been. He really was the king Illian deserved.
Turning to his right, Galanör discovered another worthy of her title. Reyna was four rows over, directing various captains in the elven army as well as taking in reports from others. Nathaniel was beside her, his elvish tested to its limits in the middle of it all. The old knight was certainly the most unusual king Ayda would ever have. Galanör only hoped his kin accepted the man.
A shadow swept over the camp, turning the ranger’s eyes to the sky. It was the first break in the clouds he had seen and the light from the waning sun cast strips of orange across the heavens. Passing over that light, in the west, were Athis and Inara. The red dragon glided with all the ease of a blade cutting through air. It was the first time he had seen them take flight since arriving at the battle. It pleased the elf to see them both recovered enough to soar again.
“Galanör!” The call returned his gaze to Reyna and Nathaniel; the old knight beckoning him to join them. As he approached, Nathaniel asked, “Would you share some food with us?”
Galanör beamed at the offer. “How could I refuse my king and queen?” His comment gave Reyna pause before she took her seat around the fire.
Like almost everything else in the camp, their makeshift stools were made from the catapults and ballistas that had been torn down for parts. The larger tent that had been erected for the council certainly had beams and other supporting structures from the catapults.
Nathaniel glanced at the elves who had taken up positions around them, just beyond their cosy camp. “Reyna,” he said, almost pleading.
Reyna acknowledged her husband’s discomfort and issued an order in elvish. The servants faded away to give the king and queen some distance while still being attentive. It was enough for Nathaniel.
“They will obey you too,” Reyna told him quietly. “And your elvish is just as good as mine.”
Nathaniel shrugged off her suggestion. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
Galanör was tempted to make a joke about taking the knight’s place, referring to the betrothment that had once existed between Reyna and himself. Deciding it was too awkward a subject, he accepted the food and drink and filled his stomach with both.
“Aenwyn asked that we keep an eye on you,” Reyna said, changing the subject. “She was worried you might return to the wounded.” Galanör looked up from his food, his eyes naturally scanning the environment for any sign of his love. “She has joined some of the hunters,” the queen went on to explain. “I dare say her skill with a bow surpasses my own.”
“That’s very kind of you, your Grace,” Galanör replied. “I fear I have aided all I can today,” he added. “My skill with healing magic is lacking.”
Nathaniel leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You don’t need to use such formal titles with us - we’re old friends.”
“Yes he does,” Reyna said, her tone clipped and her gaze averted from them both.
“What?” Nathaniel questioned.
Reyna took a breath and looked at Galanör with an apology in her eyes. Then she turned to her husband.
