Within the rock beneath Irrandor Castle...
Claire Fie’lith, adopted daughter to Til’ven and first maid to the heir to the line of Ven'nirous, cautiously traversed the dank servant tunnels that existed beneath the old human keep. She—a young dry’fae of nineteen summers—was making haste to the Healer’s Hall, located on the second floor of the south-east wing.
Shuffling along the uneven stone, she navigated the eerie maze of mana-rich stone. Having misplaced her personal light stone some days ago. It was only the dim glow—naturally emitted by the dark gray sapphire stone walls, that spared her the near-total darkness of the passage.
Oh, how she hated this place; the air was stale—and stank of mildew, and the walls, they seemed to close in around her—instilling in her an irrational fear of being lost to the tunnel’s labyrinth of twists and turns.
Seeking distraction, her mind returned to what brought her here—braving the darkness between these walls. Half a glass ago, whilst carrying out her duties, she had overheard an offhand comment from one of the patrolling guards.
Through them, she had learnt that Lurian was once more severely wounded by the Arms-master’s so-called training.
She scoff. His ‘training’ was more akin to torture and everyone knew it. Why the Lord would allow his grandson to suffer so, she couldn’t fathom, for he didn’t seem a cruel man. Stern and cold, yes, but not cruel.
Claire paused to consider...
Perhaps she was biased. The noble elf’na-ven did seem to tacitly consent to her pursuit of a romantic relationship with Lurian.
Claire had never been so scared as the day he walked in on her laying a chaste kiss on the brow of the unconscious young lord. She remembered how she froze at the sight of him; absolutely terrified that he: the master of the keep—would condemn her and her one-sided affections. But no, he simply looked between the pair and nodded, and left. Leaving her in something of a dazed stupor.
To her further befuddlement, the very next day she was assigned the coveted task of serving as first maid to Lurian.
Chuckling, she thought on their awkward beginnings. At the time, they were young—only in the beginnings of their adolescence—so it took some time for their proximity to do its work—and for her affections to bear fruit.
She let out a long sigh. Her Lurian was always so reluctant. But she had managed to wear him down. It really wasn’t easy getting this far. She couldn’t believe it. Her, a maid—a low-born orphan, a wood-elf girl—together with the grandson of a high elven lord. It was like one of those old bardic tales of forbidden love...
Though, she did have to remain vigilant. Always reminding herself that those tales she was—oh so fond of—often ended in tragedy for the lovers in question.
Because of this, she strove to maintain a state of cautious optimism in regard to any potential future together. As she was well aware that many would happily sabotage their budding relationship out of spite. Claire knew of at least three other maids who would happily rob her of her place at Lurian’s side.
Why, just the other night, she caught one trying to sneak into his chambers. The look on the girl’s face when caught was priceless. It drew a chuckle from her—even now, whilst navigating through the bleak bowels of the castle.
In truth, she didn’t mind sharing his affections. It was bound to happen eventually. He was highborn, and would likely have a highborn wife arranged for him by his family. Though young, she entertained no fanciful delusions of becoming anything more than a mistress.
It was a sad truth that it was the height of her ambitions, but she had to be realistic, and—for the most part—Claire was fine with such an arrangement.
What she was not fine with, however, was some random bitch coming along and robbing her of her place at Lurian’s side. She had worked too hard to earn but a piece of his heart, and would not surrender it so willingly to those hussies that sought his hand.
They would not have her place. ‘Especially that bitch Lora’lie,’ she thought, suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce, possessive anger—that welled up when imagining the shapely young elf’fae standing at his side.
“Ahh—shit!” she cried; the thought proving enough of a distraction to see her trip on an unseen protrusion in the stone. Falling—Claire thrust her hand forward—catching herself on the wall, thankfully saving her head from suffering the same fate as her toes.
Hissing in pain, she righted herself. Cursing her own carelessness, she continued her journey with a far more tentative step...
. . . . .
...After a few more minutes traversing the servants' labyrinth, Claire finally managed to make it to the exit closest to the Healer’s Hall. Placing her hand on the dull security sigil, carved into the wall beside the exit, she injected her mana into the runes. Read the latest chapters at novelping.com.
Once charged, the intricate sigil glowed blue, and with the turning of some unseen mechanism, the sealed exit clicked open. She marveled at the magic’s wondrous workings. Despite appearing complex, it was apparently a rather simple enchantment that prevented entry to anyone whose mana wasn’t keyed into the castle’s magical defenses.
Claire had always loved such magics, and dreamed of one day being able to inscribe such enchantments herself. Alas, for now—it was but a dream—a dream that was a long way off, for her magical studies under Til'ven’s tutelage had only just begun.
She paused, hearing an echo of the old elf’s words in her mind: ‘You must crawl before you walk, and walk before you run. There is an order to such things—young ‘fae. But first, you must learn patience. For with patience, all can be achieved in time...’
It was something the aged elf always said when she was getting a little ahead of herself. Her heart warmed when picturing the way the stoic old ‘ven smiled whilst reciting it; as if the old ven were quoting a precious memory of days long past.
Done admiring the enchantment and reliving fond memories, Claire reached out and opened the heavy wooden door. After climbing the narrow stairs, she finally came out of a small concealed passage in the north-east corner of the main keep, hidden beneath one of the stairwells on the second floor.
She dusted herself off, adjusted her bearings, and headed straight for her destination: Lurian’s own little private ward—tucked away in the depths of the healers’ Hall.
It wasn’t long before she found herself walking into one of the few great Halls within the castle: a long, sterile space, with beds positioned along both walls. She often thought on how telling it was that the healers needed to assign a permanent ward in this cramped infirmary just for his use.
It was a bitter truth that such considerations were needed; a truth—she wished weren’t so.
She remained unaccosted as she strode towards her Lurian; the pungent smell of the healers’ ointments and salves assaulted her senses as she moved through the Hall. Without breaking her stride, she waved as she passed some familiar faces. Most had grown accustomed to her presence, often seeing her whenever Lurian was under their care.
As Claire approached, she caught sight of him as he lay there—bloodied, bruised, and broken. Her heart ached at the sight. He was such a mess. His injuries, they were so extensive that even after a full round of healing, he was not yet hale.
It would seem the handful of healers under the lord’s employ were not up to the task of closing all his wounds in the little time they’ve had.
“He’ll be fine,” said a soft male voice to her right
She glanced at the approaching speaker: a young ‘ven—an apprentice healer—perhaps only a little older than Claire herself. He strolled over, a warm smile on his rather handsome face.
“Fey’thellen,” she greeted, nodding as she glanced his way. His darker skin, light brown hair, and amber eyes hinted at his wood-elf ancestry.
An ancestry they shared.
Though, given her rich auburn hair, her golden amber eyes, and her darker skin, it was obvious to all that she possessed far thicker dryad’s blood present in her veins.
“How bad is he?”
Fey’thellen’s gaze drifted from her to where Lurian lay. “A punctured lung, six broken ribs, with four more fractured… Most of the bones in his right arm below his elbow and near his left knee are shattered. They’ll be the hardest to heal—especially that knee...”
He paused, as if to consider what he might have missed. “His jaw was broken, and his shoulder was dislocated. Though healed before the end of the last bout, they will still need checking... We’ve administered a strong sedative, so he will likely be asleep for the rest of the day.”
He let out a sigh. “To be honest, if the healers weren’t there watching the fight, he’d likely be crippled.
Claire frowned. “How long till the healers are ready to finish working on him?”
He took a moment to consider. “The adept healers are a little depleted. I imagine by sundown they will have enough to cast the spells needed for him to leave the ward. And—after some rest—he should be as good as new… I’d give it about two days before he’s back on his feet, and two more before he’s back in fighting shape.”
After a deep, faltering breath—Claire sighed out her bitter frustrations. “Thanks—Fey... I—I appreciate all you healers have done for him.” Though awash with anguish, Claire held back her tears, as she was unwilling to break down before another.
Fey’thellen offered a comforting smile. “No worries, we were just doing our job... I—I guess I’ll leave you be and get back to it,” he said, before turning on his heel, returning to his rounds. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Claire relaxed, relieved to be left alone with her swirling emotions. She had long suspected the young ‘ven harbored quite the crush on her, as he seemed to seek her out whenever able. Normally she didn’t mind, as she appreciated the company and thought as long as he didn’t cross the line, any feelings he may hold were his own business.
Besides, he was cute, and the attention was flattering. Thankfully, though he lingered—he took her thanks as the polite dismissal it was—and let her be.
Now alone, Claire walked into Lurian's private ward—making sure to slide the privacy curtain closed as she entered.
Standing there, looking down at her, Lurian, she felt tears welling up in the corner of her eyes; tears that she could no longer hold in her heart. For it would all but break every time they left him in such a fractured state. The sheer magnitude of suffering he must have endured always humbled her, leaving her feeling hollow at the casual cruelty of it all.
With a shaky hand, Claire stepped forward and brushed aside the dirty, matted hair that hid the sight of his sleeping visage. Gently, she traced the sharp lines of his blood-stained face with the tips of her fingers. Even as bruised and broken as he was, she still thought him beautiful.
The image of him now, beaten, bloodied, and half-broken—was a shocking contrast to the strong profile she remembered from their last parting; she could not understand how so much could change so quickly.
But a few hours prior, he stood before her—so tall, solid, and strong.
But now, he looked so weak, so battered—so broken...
Her Lurian was not supposed to look this weak.
He was strong, stronger than most...
“Oh Lurian, what have they done to you?” she asked, wiping at her tears.
Unwilling to leave him in such a state, Claire took a small cleaning cloth from the pocket of her dress, and with a simple cantrip, she condensed a small volume of water from the moisture present in the air to dampen it and used it to gently wipe the blood from his face.
She could not help but chuckle through her tears. For it was the first time she cast with such ease. It was ironic; she had been practicing, and wanted to surprise Lurian with a show of her growing prowess...
But not like this.
Yes, it was but the simplest of magics, but it was a start, a start that showed her burgeoning talent for the arcane arts.
After doing the little she could for him, Claire leaned in, laying a chaste kiss upon his clammy brow. “Stay strong and rest well, Lurian… I will strive to be here when you wake.”
After whispering her promise, she turned and left. For she still had duties to fulfill, and he needed his rest...
“Nothing's ever quite as pure as the magical experience that is ‘first love’. It is a wondrous whirlwind of rich new emotions—that both delights and ensnares us as we lose ourselves so completely. In matters of love, it is likely the bravest we’ll ever be. For we have yet to know the bitterness of a broken heart, as we surrender ourselves fully to the highs and lows of this miraculous ordeal.”
— A Poet’s take on first love
Note: Cantrips are the most minor of spells. They only require a small incantation, a shaping of mana, and/or a flick of a finger.