pwotr. commander/sosiel. 661 words, gen. set in act 3.
"A question, if I may," Sosiel whispers. Winter settles over in the Worldwound, howling with corruption and offense. Drezen is close by, just a day's march away. Leonor knows there's a stack of papers he'd left on the desk, because he would have torn them apart if he didn't move. He does not look forward to it.
He doesn't look forward to Irabeth's reports. We won this, we won that, peppered in with We lost this many, another great calamity had struck.. Leonor knows the reports bring her as little joy as they do him. There's a weariness that they share. She's sat with him during long nights, rubbed his shoulders when he was starting to ache. He's tried, as much as he could, to chase that haunted expression from her eyes after Lost Chapel.
They sat together in that damn office, bent over reports and requests, just as they'd fought side by side to reclaim Drezen. There's camaraderie in that. Still, he doesn't look forward to her reports.
At least no new crusaders have been killed recently. He glances at Camellia, who's lost in thought in her own corner. Would Lev had spared her?
I think he would have wanted to bed her, Leonor thinks. He then blinks, hugging his knees. "Sorry, come again?"
"I wanted to ask you about your brother," Sosiel says, patiently. He puts an arm around Leonor's shoulder; Leonor scoots closer, leaning his head against Sosiel's chest. "You mentioned him quite a few times, dear. I look forward to meeting him once we win the war, but is there anything I should be prepared for? What is he like?"
Leonor hums. "Prepare to potentially extend your neck as far as it can go," he says in all seriousness. "He is quite tall, even for an elf. I'm told his eyes can be a little uncomfortable to look at - they're dark and the sclera is black? Of course, I speak from a place of growing up with him. They're not— oh! He has eyes that are like Ember's. I suppose that's a good description."
"And is he as handsome as his brother?" Sosiel replies sweetly. Leonor buries his head in Sosiel's shirt to hide the way his cheeks burn. Sosiel laughs softly and kisses the top of Leonor's head.
In another life, Leonor would have been more reticent to engage in amorous behavior like this. But he does not have much privacy these days; only time he can catch a moment with Sosiel, really, is on the road by the campfire.
Daeran gives them lingering, angry looks sometimes. But that seems aimed at Leonor more so than Sosiel, a private confession of something that should stay between them. He's been doing it less and less of late. Leonor's spike of guilt lessens with it.
"I've been told we look alike, though personally I do not see it," Leonor says. "He's just — Sosiel, what on earth are you digging for?"
"My sketchbook," Sosiel replies, shuffling around with his free hand. Leonor straightens, folding his hands neatly on his thighs. Sosiel looks at him, a little crestfallen.
"So you can find your sketchbook," he says, dumbly. "I'll get back in position once you find it."
"But, Leo," Sosiel says sadly, "you had such a sweet expression on your face when you were talking about Lev. It's lost now! I suppose I will just have to ask about him again?"
Leonor laughs. The entirety of the camp turns to look. Daeran mixes their stew with a renewed vigor, scraping the bottom of the pot audibly. Seelah laughs to herself. Camellia doesn't seem to offer much of a reaction, but Leonor doesn't seem to mind not bearing witness to it. Camellia scares him in a way he cannot say yet.
Winter settles over the Worldwound. But a day's walk away from Drezen, there's a fire, a stew of questionable quality, sketchbooks and laughter. In absence of brothers, that has to be enough.
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