gloire à mes genoux

Firstly, Leonor's voice, sonorous and deep, does not match the lithe, twig-like body. Some of that is him being an elf, of course, but Daeran's met elves before and very few of them look quite so breakable as Leonor does. There is something restrained, just barely so, underneath the robes and those burnt-looking arms. Leonor speaks with composure, but if one knows where to look, it sounds very brittle.

If he were a lesser man, Daeran would have used it to his advantage. Who knows, maybe he decides Leonor is not of the tent-dropping crowd, but of a more.. botherable kind?

Secondly, there's the issue of his messy, sad, dry curls. The color is nice, shifty, going between a blonde and a light brown as the light hits at different angles. But they resemble a cloud more than defined, well cared for curls that certain parts of Mendev's nobility like so much. On a good day, that is. On a bad one, he looks like he'd been hit by lightning, or like he's trying for the role of a scarecrow.

Thirdly, the fact he obviously has romantic feelings for Lann amuses Daeran to no end. Not necessarily because of the feelings, they're irrelevant, but because of the fact that that Lann has not expressed any interest in Leonor, or men in general.

Once, Daeran was on wretched pot-washing duty when he spied a very funny little scene; an injured mongrel, eternally shirtless, blood dripping from a deep cut in his scales, and an elf whose darkened hands fly around the wound, applying salve in a way that signals restraint. Leonor had insisted on doing it himself. Leave the healing to me!, he whisper-yelled, only to rush to Lann whose injury looked the worst, obviously. He then proceeded to take his sweet time with it, even for a healer of his caliber; if there is one thing Daeran has to admit, it is that Leonor Medvyed is a damn good healer.

But his hands lingered, shook with the attempt to part from Lann's skin when they obviously did not wish to. Leonor blinked a lot, looking a bit like a bug, suddenly unsure of himself and advising Lann to try and wear armor.

Lann did not seem to acknowledge the true cause to Leonor's restless energy. He simply took hold of Leonor's wrist and said something Daeran couldn't catch. Leonor lowered his head and nodded, letting go to deal with something else. But his touch lingered as much as propriety allowed.

Daeran spied him bringing that hand to his lips when he thought nobody was looking.

Now, is he cruel enough to say that he'd seen that? Uncertain. But is he reasonable enough to break Leonor's heart by telling him there is no chance in the whole Abyss Lann would return his feelings? Oh yes.

And one day, not long after, the opportunity presented itself.

"Commander?" Daeran announces himself, spreading the flaps to Leonor's tent gently. Leonor's head peeks out from behind the privacy screen. "Ah, you're getting dressed. I will wait."

"Is everything alright, Daeran?" Leonor asks, sincerely. Daeran's starting to hate the way he asks things — like he means it, like he cares, like the answer matters to him. When he asks Daeran if he's alright, he genuinely wants to know, and would try and do something if Daeran said he's not. Sarcasm is a foreign language to him. "It is— Just give me a moment."

Daeran crosses his arms and checks his nails. True enough, a moment later, Leonor emerges and cards his fingers through his semi-wet hair. Daeran makes a face.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" Daeran hisses, forgetting himself for a moment. He looks up at Leonor with newfound calm. "If you wish to look like a scarecrow, be my guest."

Leonor sighs. "I am in no mood for your mocking," he says, sadly. Good gods, he even sounds sad. "Was there anything else?"

"Actually, yes," Daeran purrs. "The hair was.. a momentary shock. What do they teach you about haircare in Brevoy?"

Leonor frowns. "I never have the patience for it," he says, quietly.

"Regardless," Daeran continues, ignoring him, "as your personal attaché, by the command and for the pleasure of my lovely royal cousin, I have an observation I wish to share with you. I have noticed your— infatuation with our mongrel friend, and I find it my sacred duty to inform you that he is not interested in his own gender."

Leonor blinks. Once, twice. His hand stops moving and he rubs at his face. His fingers are unsettlingly dark against his skin. He looks at Daeran, and then the ground, and Daeran again. After a while, he aims his gaze at the ground. A small sound leaves his lips.

Daeran demurely gathers his hands in front of him, face a mask of neutrality.

"That does not pertain to the crusade," Leonor says after a while. "My— My— How'd you say it, infatuation, that's mine, that's not— that does not pertain to the crusade!"

"No, it's not related to the crusade," Daeran concedes, "but it is nevertheless my solemn duty to tell you."

Leonor turns his back to him. Two steps and he falls into the chair, taking a deep breath, not looking at Daeran, burying his head in his hands.

Daeran watches, silently. He starts humming a song his mother used to sing a lifetime ago, before he abruptly cuts himself short.

"Daeran," Leonor says after a moment, voice deep and small, "what use is this for you? You broke my delusions, my heart. What of it, then? Do you wish to see me in pain?"

"I am saving you further pain," Daeran says defensively. If someone had done this to him, he would have cursed them out and formed an elaborate revenge. That is why he does not allow such things to happen to him. But Leonor — Leonor's not attacking him. He's making himself more vulnerable to strike, even.

What is this man's problem?

Leonor turns his head. There's a wet line of tears on his cheek. "I thought you didn't care for me as a person, beyond being a momentary amusement."

Daeran purses his lips. "It's very true that you are the most amusing of the crusaders, dear Commander—"

"Dear Commander?" Leonor cuts him off, still so quiet and small. His hands are shaking. He does not look like someone who normally towers over Daeran. "Talking to you is.. by and large, impossible. I'm simply not equipped to do it. Woljif and Seelah and Lann are far better at it than I am."

"Nonsense, you're doing just fine. See, you're using your words. That's what a conversation is, Leonor."

Leonor looks him in the eye. The words, Daeran notices, cut deep; he's not bothering to hide the ache. Nevertheless, Daeran shivers at the steel that meets him. A quiet, unassuming determination cuts straight through Daeran's mind and settles there, as if he's certain that Daeran would relent if only he holds out long enough.

Who is this damned man? What is his problem?

"Count Arendae," Leonor says, voice unwavering and calm. His hands are still shaking. "Please, leave. I am expecting a report on the state of all chamber pots in the camp in two hours."

"Chamber pots?!"

"You're dismissed."

Daeran stares. A passing group of crusaders has gathered by the tent; Daeran can hear their muffled voices of curiosity. He fights a sneer, resists the urge to tear into Leonor further, try and break that fucking composure of his. But if he disobeys a direct order, a dismissal even, it'll prove Galfrey right. She wants to humiliate him, so she put him up with the world's most frustrating man.

Fine, Daeran seethes internally. Fine. I'll pay you back for this, Medvyed. I'll pay you back, you fucking elf. What the fuck is wrong with you?

He gives his most saccharine smile instead. "Of course, Commander. Your chamber pots will be accounted for."

He then turns, no bow, and leaves. His blood boils and he feels the urge to shoot at something.

Chamber pots? Really, Leonor? Did Galfrey whisper that in your ear? Go fuck yourself.

His report, later that day, is a singular sentence: The camp does not stink more than ordinary. Leonor does not seem to be in a talking mood, though it is somewhat difficult to see bloodshot eyes when one's sclera is an ocher color. Daeran lingers by the flaps, studying Leonor's face for a few more moments before leaving.

Leonor is busying himself with work. He looks affected by the heartbreak, but not weakened by it. Who would have thought that someone so twig-like was made of steel?

Firstly, Leonor's voice, sonorous and deep, does not match the lithe, twig-like body. Some of that is him being an elf, of course, but Daeran's met elves before and very few of them look quite so breakable as Leonor does. There is something restrained, just barely so, underneath the robes and those burnt-looking arms. Leonor speaks with composure, but if one knows where to look, it sounds very brittle.

If he were a lesser man, Daeran would have used it to his advantage. Who knows, maybe he decides Leonor is not of the tent-dropping crowd, but of a more.. botherable kind?

Secondly, there's the issue of his messy, sad, dry curls. The color is nice, shifty, going between a blonde and a light brown as the light hits at different angles. But they resemble a cloud more than defined, well cared for curls that certain parts of Mendev's nobility like so much. On a good day, that is. On a bad one, he looks like he'd been hit by lightning, or like he's trying for the role of a scarecrow.

Thirdly, the fact he obviously has romantic feelings for Lann amuses Daeran to no end. Not necessarily because of the feelings, they're irrelevant, but because of the fact that that Lann has not expressed any interest in Leonor, or men in general.

Once, Daeran was on wretched pot-washing duty when he spied a very funny little scene; an injured mongrel, eternally shirtless, blood dripping from a deep cut in his scales, and an elf whose darkened hands fly around the wound, applying salve in a way that signals restraint. Leonor had insisted on doing it himself. Leave the healing to me!, he whisper-yelled, only to rush to Lann whose injury looked the worst, obviously. He then proceeded to take his sweet time with it, even for a healer of his caliber; if there is one thing Daeran has to admit, it is that Leonor Medvyed is a damn good healer.

But his hands lingered, shook with the attempt to part from Lann's skin when they obviously did not wish to. Leonor blinked a lot, looking a bit like a bug, suddenly unsure of himself and advising Lann to try and wear armor.

Lann did not seem to acknowledge the true cause to Leonor's restless energy. He simply took hold of Leonor's wrist and said something Daeran couldn't catch. Leonor lowered his head and nodded, letting go to deal with something else. But his touch lingered as much as propriety allowed.

Daeran spied him bringing that hand to his lips when he thought nobody was looking.

Now, is he cruel enough to say that he'd seen that? Uncertain. But is he reasonable enough to break Leonor's heart by telling him there is no chance in the whole Abyss Lann would return his feelings? Oh yes.

And one day, not long after, the opportunity presented itself.

"Commander?" Daeran announces himself, spreading the flaps to Leonor's tent gently. Leonor's head peeks out from behind the privacy screen. "Ah, you're getting dressed. I will wait."

"Is everything alright, Daeran?" Leonor asks, sincerely. Daeran's starting to hate the way he asks things — like he means it, like he cares, like the answer matters to him. When he asks Daeran if he's alright, he genuinely wants to know, and would try and do something if Daeran said he's not. Sarcasm is a foreign language to him. "It is— Just give me a moment."

Daeran crosses his arms and checks his nails. True enough, a moment later, Leonor emerges and cards his fingers through his semi-wet hair. Daeran makes a face.

"What?"

"What are you doing?" Daeran hisses, forgetting himself for a moment. He looks up at Leonor with newfound calm. "If you wish to look like a scarecrow, be my guest."

Leonor sighs. "I am in no mood for your mocking," he says, sadly. Good gods, he even sounds sad. "Was there anything else?"

"Actually, yes," Daeran purrs. "The hair was.. a momentary shock. What do they teach you about haircare in Brevoy?"

Leonor frowns. "I never have the patience for it," he says, quietly.

"Regardless," Daeran continues, ignoring him, "as your personal attaché, by the command and for the pleasure of my lovely royal cousin, I have an observation I wish to share with you. I have noticed your— infatuation with our mongrel friend, and I find it my sacred duty to inform you that he is not interested in his own gender."

Leonor blinks. Once, twice. His hand stops moving and he rubs at his face. His fingers are unsettlingly dark against his skin. He looks at Daeran, and then the ground, and Daeran again. After a while, he aims his gaze at the ground. A small sound leaves his lips.

Daeran demurely gathers his hands in front of him, face a mask of neutrality.

"That does not pertain to the crusade," Leonor says after a while. "My— My— How'd you say it, infatuation, that's mine, that's not— that does not pertain to the crusade!"

"No, it's not related to the crusade," Daeran concedes, "but it is nevertheless my solemn duty to tell you."

Leonor turns his back to him. Two steps and he falls into the chair, taking a deep breath, not looking at Daeran, burying his head in his hands.

Daeran watches, silently. He starts humming a song his mother used to sing a lifetime ago, before he abruptly cuts himself short.

"Daeran," Leonor says after a moment, voice deep and small, "what use is this for you? You broke my delusions, my heart. What of it, then? Do you wish to see me in pain?"

"I am saving you further pain," Daeran says defensively. If someone had done this to him, he would have cursed them out and formed an elaborate revenge. That is why he does not allow such things to happen to him. But Leonor — Leonor's not attacking him. He's making himself more vulnerable to strike, even.

What is this man's problem?

Leonor turns his head. There's a wet line of tears on his cheek. "I thought you didn't care for me as a person, beyond being a momentary amusement."

Daeran purses his lips. "It's very true that you are the most amusing of the crusaders, dear Commander—"

"Dear Commander?" Leonor cuts him off, still so quiet and small. His hands are shaking. He does not look like someone who normally towers over Daeran. "Talking to you is.. by and large, impossible. I'm simply not equipped to do it. Woljif and Seelah and Lann are far better at it than I am."

"Nonsense, you're doing just fine. See, you're using your words. That's what a conversation is, Leonor."

Leonor looks him in the eye. The words, Daeran notices, cut deep; he's not bothering to hide the ache. Nevertheless, Daeran shivers at the steel that meets him. A quiet, unassuming determination cuts straight through Daeran's mind and settles there, as if he's certain that Daeran would relent if only he holds out long enough.

Who is this damned man? What is his problem?

"Count Arendae," Leonor says, voice unwavering and calm. His hands are still shaking. "Please, leave. I am expecting a report on the state of all chamber pots in the camp in two hours."

"Chamber pots?!"

"You're dismissed."

Daeran stares. A passing group of crusaders has gathered by the tent; Daeran can hear their muffled voices of curiosity. He fights a sneer, resists the urge to tear into Leonor further, try and break that fucking composure of his. But if he disobeys a direct order, a dismissal even, it'll prove Galfrey right. She wants to humiliate him, so she put him up with the world's most frustrating man.

Fine, Daeran seethes internally. Fine. I'll pay you back for this, Medvyed. I'll pay you back, you fucking elf. What the fuck is wrong with you?

He gives his most saccharine smile instead. "Of course, Commander. Your chamber pots will be accounted for."

He then turns, no bow, and leaves. His blood boils and he feels the urge to shoot at something.

Chamber pots? Really, Leonor? Did Galfrey whisper that in your ear? Go fuck yourself.

His report, later that day, is a singular sentence: The camp does not stink more than ordinary. Leonor does not seem to be in a talking mood, though it is somewhat difficult to see bloodshot eyes when one's sclera is an ocher color. Daeran lingers by the flaps, studying Leonor's face for a few more moments before leaving.

Leonor is busying himself with work. He looks affected by the heartbreak, but not weakened by it. Who would have thought that someone so twig-like was made of steel?