Act 3.18 - Pretense

Nalyra sat in the waiting room of her Citadel’s infirmary, rigid as steel. She kept her face impassive, even as she had to fight the urge to pace back and forth. Such behavior was quite unbecoming for a Crown Daughter. She kept the Bridge tightly sealed, wary of letting his pain or her worry reach the other party.

After being stabilized, Tor’laen had been extracted from the capital complex by Nalyra’s Armswomen and taken back to the Aegis. Once on board, the Ydani was rushed to the ship’s infirmary, where he had disappeared into the emergency surgical suite.

And so, she waited.

Both Mikka and Vessa had stopped by to check in on her, but this was a vigil she would complete alone. It was almost fourth watch now, and most of the ship was asleep, the lobby of the infirmary still and quiet.

The marks ticked by, leaving Nalyra alone with her thoughts.

She replayed the attack over and over in her mind. Had there been any warning? A sign she missed? How had that woman gotten among the serving staff? Was this related to the attempt on Orphila, or was this revenge from one of the ousted High Houses?

Whatever the motive, whoever the backer, this had been carefully prepared. The circlet was secured in the ship’s armory, waiting for Nivi and her team to take it apart in the morning. The dead assassin, on the other hand, was in the infirmary’s small morgue, under strict guard. Nalyra’s lip curled slightly as she remembered the device at the base of the woman’s skull detonating, the wet pop followed by the soft sizzling of burning flesh.

Questions followed more questions.

The Crown Daughter was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of the infirmary door opening, the one that led to the urgent care and surgical suites. A Zakkili doctor entered the lobby, her face worn.

“Doctor Alevi.” Nalyra nodded at the head of her Citadel’s medical team. “Status report, if you would.”

“Highness.” The woman bowed to the Crown Daughter. “The Shield Consort is going to make a full recovery, in time.”

Nalyra did not allow herself an audible sigh of relief.

“Any lasting damage, Doctor?”

“I do not believe so.” Alevi shook her head. “It was…a challenge, working on a race that we have almost no data for. If not for the thorough scans we did when he was first made a provisional citizen, I fear the surgery would have been nearly impossible. Even so, we were fortunate that Ydani anatomy and physiology have broad similarities to several races already within the Monarchy.”

“Thank the Maker.” Nalyra closed her eyes for a long moment. “Any other notable occurrences during the surgery?”

“Only that I’ve never seen a race clot blood as efficiently and quickly as a Ydani. It was incredible. Had he been Zakkili, we would not be having this conversation right now.” She tapped a finger on the side of her glasses. “Oh, and as expected, we didn’t have a supply of Ydani blood on hand, so we had to use a synthetic supply that we manufactured for the Shield Consort.”

“Will that be harmful for him in the long term?” Nalyra asked sharply.

“Not at all,” the doctor reassured her. “His body will break it down in time — replace it with natural blood.”

The Crown Daughter fell silent, her tired mind processing the information.

“Is he awake?” Nalyra asked after a moment. “How is his mental state?”

Alevi gave a weary chuckle.

“I believe it would be best to ask him directly, Crown Daughter.”

The door hissed open again, and Tor’laen stepped through, one hand braced against the doorframe. He was dressed in a simple, fresh set of clothing — the kind worn by recovering patients in the infirmary. He was moving slowly, gingerly, but on his own feet.

“The Shield Consort is a stubborn one, and tough as a cornered hound,” Alevi said wryly.

“Tor’laen!” Nalyra jumped to her feet.

“Nalyra,” he acknowledged, giving her a small smile.

“I would recommend bed rest, but I doubt he would follow it. His wounds have been coated with sealant, and the microsurgery went flawlessly. A few nights of solid rest and he should regain enough mobility for daily life.” The doctor gave him a sharp glance. “Mobile, not combat ready, do remember that, Consort. And please try and keep him away from heavy lifting or sharp movements at least. I’ll examine him again during second watch tomorrow, and make sure the sealant and stitching is holding,” Alevi said, before giving a short bow and returning to the infirmary. The door slid shut behind her.

“You should be in bed still, Tor’laen,” Nalyra scolded, as she moved to support him.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, Crown Daughter. I’ve gone into battle with worse wounds than these,” he chuckled, wincing slightly at the action.

The Ydani were truly a sturdy people if his words were true, and Nalyra had no reason to doubt him. Even the wounds he had received that day would almost certainly kill a Zakkili, likely before they could even be stabilized.

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“Still, would it not be better to err on the side of caution, husband?” Nalyra glanced up at him, her arm around his waist.

“Perhaps, but if I am to be truthful, I did not want to spend the night in the infirmary. There is somewhere else I would rather sleep.”

He said the words quietly, evenly. Without a hint of hesitation or doubt.

Nalyra froze, her mind derailing for a heartbeat. She could feel her ears start to burn.

“Yes,” she managed after a few breaths. “Yes, that is where you belong, after all. Come, Tor’laen, the hour grows late. Let us return to the High Deck.”

Slowly, with Nalyra supporting her husband, the pair hobbled out of the infirmary, making their way through the quiet of fourth watch.

The door to their cabin slid open at Nalyra’s touch, and she helped Tor’laen through the entrance.

Their trip through the Mid and High Decks had been slow, the Ydani moving gingerly. However, Nalyra had the sneaking suspicion that her consort was doing so for her benefit, and that he was capable of moving at a brisker pace, though likely at the cost of pain and discomfort. Such a sturdy husband.

Their trip had been quiet, the pair barely speaking, all of their communication done by touch and their Bridge.

Nalyra gently helped the wounded Ydani into one of the cabin’s chairs, easing him off his feet.

“Wait here for a moment, Consort.”

He nodded and the Crown Daughter slipped away, pulling apart her hastily pinned up hair, and moving to her closet. She hurried to disrobe, throwing on the first nightgown she could find. Anything would do.

Nalyra returned to the main section of the cabin, and returned to Tor’laen’s side. As she wordlessly helped him to his feet, her eyes found his cot. A simple military bed, that had been fabricated for him the night he had become a subject of the Monarchy.

A plain, stiff bed. For the man who had killed for her. The man who had bled for her. No. No, that would not do.

She started to tug him towards her massive bed.

“Crown Daughter?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“You are injured, Consort. You will recover faster on a softer mattress.”

“Nalyra…” he started.

“Tor, must I Press you to get into bed with me?”

He gave her a bemused look.

“I suppose not, Lyra.”

She tried to ignore the small flutter that passed through her stomach.

Nalyra helped him across the room, right to the side of her bed. As he gingerly climbed in, Nalyra stealthily tapped a few times on the panel above her nightstand. The Crown Daughter then climbed in after him, sliding under the covers. Nalyra’s bed was large enough that even with the Ydani in it, there was several feet of space between them.

Nalyra dimmed the lights, and started the recording of rain they often fell asleep to. For a few marks, the two simply laid there in silence, their gazes on the ceiling. An unfamiliar sense of nervousness was bubbling in Nalyra’s stomach, and she could feel a faint echo of it over their Bridge.

Uncharted territory for the both of them.

Nalyra was the first to break the silence, rolling onto her side.

“The cabin feels somewhat chilly tonight, does it not?”

Of course it did. She had lowered the room’s temperature setting by five degrees before getting into bed.

“It does indeed, Nalyra,” came Tor’laen’s reply. “Should I change the climate controls?”

“No. You should be moving as little as possible, Tor’laen.” She started to wiggle closer to him under the covers. When she drew near, she pulled another thicker blanket over the two of them. “This is easier, is it not?”

“Correct as always, darling,” he chuckled.

Something unspoken passed between them, and Tor’laen rolled onto his side, facing her. Nalyra let the wall she kept across their Bridge soften, and their tentative emotions swirled together, both of them hesitating.

The Crown Daughter was the first to make the leap.

She closed the last gap between the two, and reached down, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. The Ydani’s eye widened slightly.

“Nalyra—“

“Shut up, Tor,” she muttered. Her cheeks were burning, and she could feel her embarrassment racing toward him. “Help me get this off.”

After a breath, her consort gave her a knowing grin, and reached down to help. It took a little effort to get it over his horns while being careful of his wounds, but after half a mark it was done. Nalyra threw the garment into the darkness of the cabin.

In the dim starlight spilling through the transparent wall, Nalyra trailed a hand down her husband’s bare chest.

He was scarred, but not as badly as she might have expected. She traced a jagged scar with the tip of her finger, Tor’laen watching her silently. She continued to move downward, until she reached the pair of wounds, each covered by a patch of hard, clear sealant. As delicately as possible, she brushed her fingers over them. He did not wince.

Not trusting her tongue, Nalyra let their Bridge talk for her, and Tor’laen seemed content to do the same. Her worry lapped at him, only to ebb away at his feeling of quiet reassurance. His pain mingled with the fear he had felt while carrying her, and she soothed it with a feeling of mutual care and safety. Their emotions mixed together, settling into a whirl of tentative hunger and knowing trust.

She looked up and caught his gaze.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, or are you going to hold your wife close, Tor?”

He smiled, and gathered her up in his arms, pressing her gently into him.

His chest was broad. Sturdy. Warm. It was everything she had expected. Everything she had hoped for.

Nalyra snuggled closer, careful not to push against the two sealed wounds.

This felt right. This was the correct level of affection, for now. And when morning came, when they returned to the command dais and started to peel back the layers of this latest assassination attempt, things would not change. They would not change. She would not become like Zikara. He would not become like Queni’la.

Even if her sister had been correct about some parts of having a consort, perhaps, the way she went about it was unacceptable. This connection, this care, was something that belonged only to her and Tor’laen. Not something to be brazenly paraded about, or flaunted before every watching eye.

But those were thoughts for another time. Unnecessary in this little secret world of theirs. Tor’laen pulled her a little closer, and she rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow and steady beat of his heart.

In their cabin, the quiet humming of the Aegis and the soft sounds of rain were all that could be heard that night.