gloire à mes genoux

Sometimes, he wonders why he'd been born an oracle. His magic sometimes wants to cook him alive from inside out if he uses certain spells. He gets visions of his friends getting hit and he can do nothing about it, as if his throat dries up and he can't even warn them. All that for what? Fires blooming in his presence, more powerful healing spells?

He looks at clerics and sorcerers. They don't have to boil alive to do the healing, nor do sorcerers have to do it to rain fireballs on their enemies.

When those doubts come, though, he busies himself otherwise. Praying is ideal, but if he cannot do it at that moment, he does anything else, casts wards, counts resources, checks in on the soldiers and his party. Daeran seems to notice these things and studies him every time he does, like he's trying to deduce something. Leonor stares back.

For all his openness, he does not wish to expose himself to Daeran Arendae's further mockery. The Count's tongue is a venomous thing. There are a lot of things Leonor is secure enough to convey - his earnestness, his faith, his heart, his trust - but here, with ground shaking beneath his feet, he cannot afford to convey the insecurity he feels.

So he asked Sosiel to draw his portrait. He hopes he'll leave out the charred hands.

Wind blows in the middle of nowhere. The abyssal energy seeps into his nostrils, bit by bit. They'd been traveling for hours now; their feet feel heavy and swollen, and even their heavily armored fighters are calling for a break. In fact, it was Seelah who called for it, putting a hand on Leonor's shoulder to catch his attention.

He did not realise how tired he'd really been before she did it. There was faint smoke coming out of his ears, a residue of a spell his magic deemed too important to use without consequence.

"You will not win this Crusade if you die on us," Seelah said, not without kindness. "Let's break."

It was in that inopportune time that Leonor's feet stumbled upon an ill-placed rock. Even with his elven height, Seelah still looked very tall from the ground.

Now that the wards are up, he can finally afford to sit. He'd taken his gloves off to work and tend to the fire, to make his ears stop smoking. He has a full view of his charred hands.

"Are you okay, Leonor?" Seelah asks, shuffling to sit beside him. She has a concerned look on her face. "You're overworking yourself. You keep doing that when you're not feeling good. What's the matter?"

"It's just that— gods, Lann, that stew smells wonderful—"

"'Course it does, chief! Better than that smoke coming out of your ears earlier!" Woljif chimes in, tail whipping around like a cat's. When did he come to sit on Leonor's right? He must be more tired than he thought..

"Thanks! It's the most I could do, it's just a bland stew at the end of the day, but I hope it tastes better than rats we used to eat down in the Neathholm," Lann replies. Leonor frowns. Why's Lann so hard on himself? He makes delicious food.

Leonor looks at Lann for a moment, the way campfire casts a golden light on his green scales, bathing his horn in shadow. He feels the urge to caress that horn, run his fingers down those scales, tell him he doesn't need to put himself down like this.

"You could cook rats and Leonor would think you made a heavenly meal," Woljif says, tearing Leonor from his thoughts.

He rubs his temples. "Mm, Woljif, please, can you not do that?"

"What? State the truth? I have said a lie or two in my life, true, but in this, I don't think I'm lying. Brother Woljif knows what's going on, chief. Trust me!"

"Woljif, behave!" Seelah's voice booms from the left. "Leonor, really, what is going on with you?"

"Just oracle oddities," Leonor mumbles. "My hands have been bothering me — not in the way of pain, they're perfectly healthy, just— I don't want to walk around with charred hands. And I will, for the rest of my life, because I am an oracle."

Seelah flinches in sympathy. "Do these curses… go away after a while?"

Leonor offers her a sad smile. "Not that I know of."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound very nice," Woljif says, in a quiet voice. "For what's worth, I don't think your hands look strange. I like it, even. Permanent warpaint?"

Lann tastes the stew and glances in their direction. "Sets you apart, right? Our fearsome leader, a miracle with charred hands!"

Leonor laughs feebly. "Some oracles say their grip is affected. Mine is, thankfully, not. Nor is the skin sensitive or anything. Silver lining?"

"Exactly! We have to remain optimistic in these trying times, or it'll all fall apart." Seelah rubs his shoulder affectionately. "Hey, Leo. You're doing a great job so far. Stop questioning yourself."

Leonor leans his head against her shoulder, now without pauldrons. "If I don't, who will? The ordinary soldier? No. Leader bears the brunt of it all. Unfortunately, I am so very far from the Queen in this regard."

"She's been leading this thing for decades," Lann says, gently. "By comparison, you got the job yesterday. You'll get there."

Leonor slides down the wet, gross log and groans. Woljif pokes him in the leg with his tail. Seelah offers her arm as a convenient, half-comfortable pillow.

Sosiel suddenly laughs, softly, raising his eyes from his sketchbook. Leonor opens his eyes and looks at him, curious what had provoked that reaction.

"Beautiful miracle of charred hands," he exclaims. "That'd be a good title for this one."

Leonor isn't sure he agrees, but he's too tired to argue otherwise. Between the fire, Seelah's arm and Woljif's body around him, he's just about ready to fall asleep.

"We'll keep a warm bowl for you, Leo," Lann says, distantly and in a haze. "First watch is mine. Your wards will keep the demons out for a few hours. Sleep."

Leonor lifts his charred hand up and looks at it. At least it'll hide the blood beneath the fingernails.