#naela

What actually happened to her though, is not exactly trumpeted from the rooftops (treetops? treetops.) for everyone to know. Arya isn't shy about walking around with her scars on display (the ones on her wrists are visible pretty much all the time and she only covers the ones on her shoulders/back when around Izzy for the first few months) and isn't at all shy about saying that she was captured and tortured by Durza if someone asks. I think it's an 'open secret' in Du Weldenvarden, and more known the closer you are to Ellesmera. Details on Arya's captivity, though, like where it was, how long, etc, are pretty scarce

As for Naela knowing, she knew Torin was talking about Arya. I think she and Arya know each other, as acquaintances if not light friends. She also is someone Islanzadí trusts enough to watch Torin, so has a basic understanding of the situation. Naela hesitates because Islanzadí doesn't want Torin knowing anything until she wants him to know it, and definitely not until she gets confirmation from Arya (which requires more of Torin's stories, as Arya herself has stronger memories of torture than of the times between interrogations and wasn't always lucid). I think there's also a distinct anger among the elves for how Arya was treated in Gil'ead, directed more at the King and somewhat looped into the overall rage against him for the Fall.

Islanzadí's reaction afterwards is...hm. Ya know, I'm not entirely sure! She wasn't lying when she said she had to meet with the council after Torin's first encounter with her, and I think that gave her enough of a task to put it all out of her mind for the moment. Afterwards she probably had some time to grapple with it alone. She might have been wary about several things, including the possibility of causing Arya more pain by asking her to remember back, while also concerned that if she told Arya about Torin then she would ask her to stop talking to him about her imprisonment (Arya generally avoided specifics about it unless Islanzadí asked about particular scars) and Izzy is a little reluctant to lose this source of information. She does eventually scry Arya and bring it up though, but Arya is honest in that she vaguely remembers someone being kind to her but can’t tell if it’s the same guy without more info. Overall I think Islanzadí is quietly eager to have a new understanding of what her daughter went through, but she’s also uh...what’s the word for it...she’s very much okay with killing Torin if he reveals he hurt Arya or took part in her torture. That’s not the word(s) I was looking for but couldn’t brain the one I wanted.

The Ward Captain had either left in a hurry, or the bathroom had been stocked before he was brought to his new room. A bottle each of shampoo and conditioner sat on the shower caddy, with a bar of the standard issue strong soap that everyone received in their hygiene kits nestled on a folded washcloth on the shelf beneath. 

The runoff from the shampoo stung as Torin splashed another handful of water on his hair to lather it more deeply. The sores scattered across his body protested, the cracked and gashed surfaces of his knuckles screaming as the soap infiltrated every crevice that the injuries created. Instead of avoiding the wounds, Torin took his time with them, ferreting out the embedded grit and scrubbing out damaged and dying tissue to give them a fresh chance to heal in this new, clean environment. Months of dirt, sweat, and blood washed away, leaving his body feeling almost raw in its refreshed state. 

A new start, vulnerable as it was. 

Wrapped in a towel, Torin stepped out with a billow of steam. The collection of clothes in the dresser was indeed quite varied, from jeans and clean prisoner uniforms to cargo pants, T-shirts, and sport shorts. Feeling overheated from the shower, the young man dressed in only a pair of clean underclothes and shorts before returning to the bathroom.

Tendrils of steam still curled lazily from the open shower door, caressing the ceiling before trickling out into the bedroom. The currents they created bloomed small patches of fog on the mirror, the gentle ebb and flow having drawn Torin’s attention. Curious, yet almost fearful of what he would see, the young man reached out with a dry cloth and wiped down the mirror. 

Dark eyes stared back at him, ringed and sunken. His damp hair was still wild and jumbled, matching the rough two inches of snarled beard that covered his lower face. Torin ran his fingers through the scraggled mess of facial hair, tugging on it as if to ensure it was real. 

He had never grown a beard outside of prison, and even inside it was managed for minimal hygiene’s sake. Every three months the guards would take him out to shower, then strap him to a chair in the back of the base’s barbershop. A gruff, mute master sergeant would then shave his face and trim his hair till it was just at regulation length before shoving Torin out into the waiting hands of his guards and slamming the door behind him. The whole process was reminiscent of the first two hours of his arrival at Gil’ead as a forced recruit, a whirlwind of activity and movement where he had no choice of where he was going nor when he went there.

The guards hadn’t done any of that the last two cycles though, only gave him a large bucket of cold, mildly soapy water and a rag to wash up in his cell. Too much to deal with concerning the war than to worry about prisoners facing the possibility of lice. 

Torin scratched at the tangled bristles that obscured his face, frowning. He could barely feel his cheek through it. It looked awful, like an angry mess of thick, curly boar bristles slapped onto his skin. 

The beard would have to go. 

A little rummaging in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror produced more than what he needed. He found a half-full tin of medicated ointment, which he gently dabbed on his knuckles before bandaging them with the plasters tucked beside it. On a lower shelf was a standard shaving kit, complete with spare blades, scissors and a comb for trimming hair to regimented lengths, and what Torin assumed had been the Captain’s rather fine badger hair brush. A puck of dimly scented shaving soap rested in a mug on the counter, a piece of tape boldly reminding the former owner that it was for ‘SHAVING ONLY.’

As the soap and brush soaked in the filling sink, Torin busied himself swapping out the old blade in the kit’s safety razor before the young man turned back to the mirror with scissors in hand. With a wince of pulled skin, he seized a clump of beard, pulled it away from his face as best he could, and slid the scissors in. 

The slow snick as the strands were severed, followed by the chunk of damp hair releasing its hold, was oddly satisfying. Torin settled into a rhythm, slipping his fingers under the tangled mess to move it away from his skin before clipping it. As the pieces came away, scattering across the counter before being swept into the tiny wastebin, something almost recognizable began to take shape. As the final clump fell, Torin raised his gaze to meet that of the man in the mirror.  

He had lost weight. His cheeks, still mostly covered by the now close cropped beard, reflected the years of meager meals served in his cell, so different from the slight softness of his teen years. He reached up and gently felt along the ridge of his cheekbone, feeling for the wire-like scar there. As he did, the changes to his body became more apparent. His muscles had been lean before, but were now almost etched under his skin. His collarbones and shoulders bore the brunt of the sores from his dirty uniform, the rough patches raw from where sweat collected and irritated the tiny scratches left from the sand and grime embedded in the coarse cloth. More scattered across his chest and back, where he rested between fits of tossing and turning in restless sleep on that cold steel cot and concrete floor.    

Torin swallowed. Maybe recognizing the man in the mirror wasn’t a wholly good thing in his current state. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the humid air, trying to calm the tremors in his hands.

As the shaking eased, Torin retrieved the wet brush, warmed razor and slick soap from the sink. A shave would help him, he was sure of it. It was an unexpectedly skilled task, one that required concentration to be done correctly and safely, never mind done well. The act had always served as a calming start to his day before it all happened, a ritual carried out by men across the whole of Alagaësia that he shared. 

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Torin flung the excess water from the brush and began to swirl it over the puck of soap. Each turn loaded the fine hairs with light froth, building up as the moisture was absorbed. He stopped twice to drizzle the puck with droplets of water, and continued the smooth turning of his wrist until, by feel of the resistance and the sound of the brush alone, Torin knew the foam was instead a thickened paste of froth. 

A sprinkle of water into the mug and he began the long art of building a proper lather. The act brought a tiny smile to his face, the slap of the brush as it circled the mug in quick succession reminding him of long past mornings watching his father shave. Once the lather formed peaks, Torin began working the rich foam into the cropped bristles across his face. Light strokes painted everything white, soft and airy on his damp skin. 

Outside the room, Torin heard Naela speaking to someone. There was movement and a clattering jangle of objects being settled on the desk, but he paid it no mind as he picked up the razor. This was not a time to be distracted. A steady hand was needed now, and for once his did not tremble. 

Tilting his head slightly, Torin set one of the edges of the safety razor against his cheek, right above the gentle ridge the foam created over the start of his trimmed beard. The angle was muscle memory, as was the feather light pressure he applied as he guided the blade with short strokes downwards. After so long, a second pass going against the grain would probably be in order, but for now Torin followed his father’s advice to follow the grain first. It wouldn’t do to have a sloppy shave if the Queen of the Elves were to visit again, no sir.

Every few strokes saw him flip the razor to utilize both sides before swishing the whole thing in the warm water of the sink. It was not long before the first pass was complete, and with a quick reapplication of the still-activated brush, white foam covered his face and neck again.

Moving more carefully now, Torin began the second pass, going against the grain and removing any stray hairs that remained. He could feel the familiar smooth, almost slick texture of the skin that was revealed with each stroke under his fingers as he pulled the awkward sections taut. It felt...good. Felt like normalcy.  

With one last stroke, the final patch of soap was removed. Torin set the blade aside and drained the sudsy water from the sink, wiping the stray flecks of foam away with a hand towel as he watched the dregs slide down the drain. Two cupped handfuls of cool water splashed across his face saw the ritual completed in its entirety, soothing the minor irritation that always came with a close shave. He checked the mirror one last time as he ran his hand over his now smooth chin, feeling for any missed spots.

If it weren’t for the haunted look of his eyes and the wild length of his hair, Torin could have sworn the scrawny young man looking back was him on the first day of bootcamp. His face had matured somewhat since then, but the skinny frame and baby smooth cheeks called him back to those first few days of his forced service. 

He picked up the scissors and rinsed them in the sink before awkwardly pulling a strip of his hair down. This would be a tad more difficult than a shave.

“You look much younger without your beard. Would you like help with your hair?”

Torin jerked, whirling to face Naela where she stood at the doorway to the bathroom. She tilted her head slightly, hands clasped behind her back. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.” 

“I-it’s fine.” The young man looked back to his reflection, contemplating his still-damp locks. “...A bit of help would be appreciated. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Naela took the scissors from his hand and led him to the desk chair, which she dragged to the rough center of the room. “Is there any particular way you would like it?”

Torin paused. Part of him simply wished for a return to his previous style, to be able to look in the mirror and forget that anything had happened. To believe that the last years were simply a dream. 

But no. To cast aside the time spent in Gil’ead’s cells would be to cast aside the changes he had gone through, changes that were integral to his sense of self. It would also feel like...a disrespect to the elf woman who set in motion Torin’s new path in life those years ago. 

A thought occurred to him. “One of the Queen’s guards...I think his name was...Macil? D-do you think you could cut my hair like his?”

The smile that graced Naela’s face could be heard in her words. “I think that is going to suit you very well. I will do my best, Aldsson.”

“Thank you.” Torin smiled as well. The elf’s warmth was infectious. “And Naela? You can just call me Torin.” 

The room fell to comfortable silence but for the rasping sound of the scissors through Torin’s hair. The feeling of the comb gently running over his scalp was surprisingly calming. It was nice to just sit for a moment, free from fear.

As the minutes passed, a question drifted into Torin’s mind. “Naela?”

“Yes, Torin?” The elf returned from retrieving a small hairband from her pack, where it leaned against the outer door frame. 

The young man chose his words carefully. “When...when I was a guard, there was an elf woman here.” Naela’s hands, gathering up sections of his hair, paused for the briefest of moments, a stop so short that it was little more than a twitch. “Did you know her?”

Naela gently snapped the elastic around the small ponytail she had made and began trimming down the back of his head. “I cannot say. I heard about her, but do not know much.” She checked the length of her cut and used the comb to even it out. 

“Oh.” Torin hadn’t considered that. It occurred to him that he had no idea just how many elves there were left after the Rider’s Fall. Were there hundreds? Thousands? It was foolish to think that a single elf out of their entire species would be, just by chance, known by his new guard. “...I never even got her name.” Even if Naela hadn’t taken that moment to tilt his head forward for a better angle, Torin would have hung it in shame. “It’s strange, but...I’ve always wanted to know what happened to her. It’s like her face is burned into my memory.”

Naela didn’t respond, engrossed in her work. Torin left it at that, but the questions still swirled in his mind.

It was only a handful of minutes more before Naela gave a soft hum and used a hand towel to brush the stray hairs from Torin’s back and shoulders. “Finished. Let me know if you would like me to try something else.”

Torin moved to the bathroom to see the elf’s work, peering into the mirror. 

He couldn’t help but smile as he ran his hand over the soft three quarters of an inch left at the sides and back of his head. The remainder of his hair, gathered in a tufted ponytail, would hang at the edge of his jaw when released.

It felt clean. New. A true fresh start.

“Thank you, Naela.” He turned back to the summer-eyed woman, beaming with a long forgotten smile. “It’s perfect.”

Not long after, Torin found himself seated at the former Captain’s desk with a bowl of warmed stew and a slab of bread. He did his best to not look like a feral beast as he ate, forcing himself to take a single spoonful at a time and a bite of the thick bread after. It was the first real, filling food the young man had eaten in years, and he would savor it. 

Torin finished off the final dregs of the stew and rinsed the dishes in the tiny bathroom’s sink. Once done he wandered back out to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling drained.

Out of habit the young man looked up to the wall to judge the time by the glimmer of the moon and stars. It took him a moment to remember that the Captain’s room was more central than the wards and had no window.

“It is nearly midnight.” Naela commented from the door. “Would you like the light off?”

Moments after Torin confirmed that he did, his head hit the pillow. He sank into sleep, mind abuzz with the turns his life had taken.

~~~

The morning brought a breakfast of overnight oats and fruit, a delicacy Torin had nearly forgotten existed. As he slowly peeled each segment from the last orange at his disposal, the young man mulled over what to do in the coming hours till the Queen came to him again. 

There were no books in the room. Naela was reading a novel, but when she offered Torin one of the two others she had in her pack he was dismayed to find that they were in a script that he did not understand. Most of the drawers of the desk were empty besides a few pieces of the thick, cotton-based stationary the Captain used for official correspondence. No pencils or pens rattled about, and beyond a dusty chewing tobacco tin filled with paper clips that had fallen between the desk and the wall, nothing else of note could be found. 

The last segment disappearing between his lips, Torin quietly got up and rinsed the oats bowl in the bathroom sink and disposed of the strawberry tops and orange peel in the small wastebasket. 

Naela looked up as he moved. “Would you like anything else, Torin?” She smiled, sliding a thin wooden tab into the book on her lap. “There is plenty more food if you are still hungry.”

As always, her kindness made the edges of Torin’s lips tilt up in a returned grin. “No, thank you.” 

A jolt suddenly shot through his mind. The conversation the night before. Naela’s uncertainty surrounding the elf he had met those years ago. His shame at never even learning the woman’s name. 

“Actually, Naela. Do you happen to have a pencil?”

He didn’t know her name. But he would never forget her face.

~~

Torin shifted his grip on the pencil, feeling the gentle rasp of the graphite against the paper’s texture as he defined the edge of the scar that interrupted the woman’s right eyebrow. That one had been old, he was sure. He refused to add any of the scars she had gained in Gil’ead, trying to capture the person she was away from the prison’s influence. 

It had been hours since Naela handed off the pencil to him. She occasionally peered over his shoulder and praised his unusually steady hands but otherwise let him work in comfortable silence. Torin let the world melt around him, everything else a blur. 

A sudden shuffle alerted him to a change outside his cone of focus, but he paid it no mind. He was almost finished, added the last flecks to the eyes, and sat back with a crackling pop as his hunched spine straightened. 

The elf he had met before stared back at him. As always, there was fire in her eyes. 

“It is customary to rise when a guest enters.”

Torin strangled a yelp. Queen Islanzadí stood in the doorway, Naela at an eased attention just outside. 

“M-ma’am!” Torin put the pencil down and scrambled from the desk, nearly knocking over the chair in his hurry. A long buried instinct told him to snap to attention and salute, but at the last moment he stifled the urge and hastily bowed. “I-I’m s-sorry, I didn’t hear you c-come in. I beg your f-forgiveness.” Torin kept his head low, unsure if he should rise from the kowtowed position. 

He could feel Islanzadí’s golden eyes roving over him. “That is quite enough.” Torin straightened, somewhat relieved. The Queen turned to Naela with a short, “Thank you. You are dismissed. Return in three hours.” before returning her attention to the young man before her. 

Torin felt his fingers digging into his skin where his hands hung at his sides. Naela was a balm to his anxiety, and part of him wanted to ask if she could stay. The departing elf gave him a warm smile over Islanzadí’s shoulder and subtly nodded towards the hall door as she left. 

The knot of tension in Torin’s stomach eased slightly. Naela would not be far. 

“Tell me. What had you so absorbed that you forgot the world, Aldsson?” Torin snapped his gaze back to the Queen just as her own gaze fell on the desk. 

A bolt of lightning seemed to shock through Islanzadí’s expression. It was there for the barest measure of a second before it was gone, replaced with a sudden tightness in her voice. “What is this?” 

Torin felt himself shrink at the sharpness in her tone, but something inside him held firm. He drew himself up, and lifted the sketch from the desk with steady hands. “Ma’am. I don’t know the woman’s name, but I can remember her face clearly.” He offered the drawing to the Queen, a nagging urge to please flitting in the back of his mind as she accepted it. “I...I wanted to know if she made it. Naela did not know but–”

Islanzadí held up a hand, halting the rush of words in Torin’s throat. She studied the drawing intently, eyes gliding over the details Torin had included. The young man swore he saw a hint of warm softness color the chill of the Elven Queen’s countenance. 

What felt like an eternity ticked by. Cautious, curious, Torin risked a quiet question that had been burning in him since waking that morning.

“Did...did Your Majesty know her?”

Islanzadí did not look up. Instead she breezed by him to the desk and picked up the discarded pencil. Torin felt a jolt of protectiveness over the drawing, surged forward to stop her from destroying it, before Islanzadí’s sharp glare stopped him in his tracks. 

Torin could only watch, first in dread and then in relief as the Queen wrote out four human runes at the base of the picture. 

She turned back and held the sketch out to him. “Arya.”

The former guard’s mouth went dry, heart pounding in his chest at the single uttered word as he carefully took the offered page. “A-Arya?” He dropped his gaze to the drawing. 

“Yes. Her name.” When Torin did not move, frozen in place, the Queen pointed to the bed. “Sit.”

Body numb with the new information, emotions roiling through his skull, Torin obeyed. He sat on the edge of the simple bed and finally managed to tear his eyes away from the name elegantly scrawled below the face that had haunted him all these years. One question answered, another took its place. “What ha–”

“Now is not the time.” Islanzadí’s statement snapped his mouth shut again. Regal even now, the Elven Queen turned the desk chair and sat to face him. She had taken on the cool demeanor once again, the deadly hawk still debating on whether to end this little field mouse or let him live. 

“Tell me more of your story, Aldsson.”

~~

“One of my people will come to you shortly.” The door to Torin’s cell clicked shut, guided by silent magic. The display made him shiver again. “I cannot confirm your account until tomorrow at the earliest, and cannot trust you to roam free. However, that does not mean that you will remain here in your own filth. You will bathe and be provided with new clothing before we next meet. 

“If you cause any disturbance or attempt to flee, you will be killed without hesitation. Am I clear?”

Torin heard himself speak in affirmation, but his mind was reeling as the Queen departed down the ward’s hall. 

‘Confirmation.’ So some of the men from the High Security Ward had survived the battle. He wondered if they would be truthful when asked about their former comrade, and the consequences for both if they were not. 

Suddenly lightheaded, Torin stumbled to his cot and collapsed on to it. His face pressed against the cool cinderblock, providing some anchor to the world. Every nerve tingled with static, fizzling anxiety and long forgotten hope all clamoring for the top spot in his consciousness. The dulled realization that he had forgotten to ask if the elf he had met back then was alive drifted through his mind with a pang of guilt before it too faded. 

It took til the sun had set and the moon had risen to peer over the rim of the world for Torin’s overstimulated brain to wrestle the revelations and relivings of the day down. He shifted in his cot and sat up, back to the wall, as he laid out the processed information in simplified pieces to take them in with an emptied mind.

The elves were fully in control of Gil’ead, not the Empire. The Elven Queen, Islanzadí, had visited him at his cell. She was interested in the fire-eyed elf that had been imprisoned here, and in Torin’s interactions with her. The Queen would come speak to him again, probably tomorrow, and another elf was going to come and take Torin somewhere to bathe and give him a new prison uniform. 

The last pieces to the day’s puzzle lingered in the young man’s mind as he tucked the rest of the information away. 

Torin was not exactly a prisoner anymore, but was not free either. Not only that, but the question that had stayed with him since his arrest may yet be answered.

‘What happened to the elf after her escape from Gil’ead?’

A knock against the cell door roused Torin from his thoughts. He stood, a bit more than surprised that anyone would be so kind as to knock, and warily approached the barred window. “Y-yes?” His throat was dry from his earlier speech. 

An elven woman was outside, peering into the cell with the same curiosity Torin once held as he looked in on the imprisoned elf all that time ago. “Stars watch over you, Torin Aldsson. I am Naela, of House Varan.” Her voice was the pitch and tone of a shallow river gliding over rounded stones, a smooth, rich alto with hints of lilting tones and rolling ripples.  

“It is nice to meet you, Naela.” 

The young man could not help but feel a small sense of relief as his gaze caught on the woman’s hazel eyes. It was clear, through them, that Naela carried the same power as the other elves Torin had encountered. But there was something different about the way she held it, almost cupped in her hands. There was a softness, almost gentle touch at the edges. 

Her eyes were...warm. Like laying in the beams of light that graced the ground on a chill day. Whereas the imprisoned elf’s eyes blazed with an undying fire of ferocity and determination, and Queen Islanzadí’s were the sharp, crisp chill of a winters day, Naela’s eyes were the warm sun of approaching autumn, the last vestiges of warmth and comfort at the edge of the cold seasons ahead.  

Torin wondered. If the elf from before were safe, with friends, away from this awful place and free from pain...would her eyes look the same? 

With a murmured word and a gentle tug, Naela unlocked and opened the door. “The Queen has assigned me to be your guard.” She stepped aside, offering a clear path into the hall. “If you would follow me, please.”

Torin went to fall in, but stopped at the threshold of his cell. It felt as though iron shackles had snapped around his ankles, pulling tight as he tried to step over the invisible line separating him from the world outside the four little walls. A wave of panic washed through him, ice cold to the point that it made his lungs seize. 

What if there were spells set on his cell? What if he couldn’t leave? The world seemed to tremble at the edges, and for an instant he felt his foot moving back, away from the door back to the relative safety of his cell–

Gentle hands on his forearms snapped the world back to an anchored clarity. Naela was in front of him, concern tipping her sharp brows inwards. “You are safe, Aldsson.” 

Torin could not stop his shaking. He wanted to believe her, he really did. But how could she know? He had only left his cell with another guard before. What if there were things set in the stones to kill him if he left? Or what if the burns on the imprisoned elf’s feet were a result of an escape attempt? What if–

Naela was speaking, then. But the words were...different. They were not in common tongue, yet deep in the marrow of his bones, the very cells of his nerves, Torin somehow...understood. He did not know what she had said but in that moment he understood her meaning, that there was absolute truth in her words. 

“Listen to my voice, Alddson. You are safe. Nothing will harm you here.” 

The trembling eased to a manageable level. 

“Would you like me to help you?” Torin nodded mutely. Following the pressure that the elf exerted on his arms, unable to resist, the young man took his first steps out of his cell in months.

The hall was the same as it always was. But in that moment, as Torin breathed deeply and tried to get his hammering heart under control, the air felt crisp and clear. The lights felt bright, almost too much so. Beneath his bare feet, the cool concrete felt polished and mirror smooth. 

It felt...good. And at the same time, everything almost overwhelmed him. 

“Are you back with us, Aldsson?” The young man focused back on the elf that still held his arms. Her concern was evident through the tilt of her head and tightening around her eyes. 

A pang of guilt and shame washed through him. This woman had come to let him out of a dank and filthy prison cell, and instead of thanking her and doing the only sane thing and walking out, he had to have her physically drag him through the door like a nervous cat from under a bed. 

“Yes.” Torin instinctively flexed his fingers, that telltale itch and tingle forming in his muscles that was only pacified through worrying at his knuckles. “I’m s-sorry. I don’t– I didn’t–”

“Do not be sorry for this.” Naela’s voice was firm, and the combination of that and the soothing pressure as she squeezed his forearms drew Torin’s eyes back to hers. “You are feeling things that are natural for some after such isolation.” She suddenly smiled at him, bright and reassuring. “If it will make this easier for you, I can keep contact with you as we walk. Would you prefer to remain indoors? There is a path that does not lead outside if you are not yet ready.”

A soft blanket of solace settled over Torin’s shoulders. He gave Naela a shaky smile, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With a reassuring pat to his arm, the elf shifted to a position slightly behind his right and settled a hand on his shoulder. Together, the elf and the freed man moved to the stairs.

~~~

Despite Naela’s gentle presence, Torin felt a twinge of unease in his stomach as they passed the door that led to the High Risk Ward’s open-floor showers. Another turn saw the two pass the ward common room and finally stop at the small barracks, where Naela held the door for her charge to enter and beckoned him to the door at the back.

Torin followed obediently, eyes darting to take in the state of his former bunk. Second on the right, lower berth. Like all the other beds it had been stripped, the mattress removed and placed elsewhere. The footlockers were pulled from their places beneath the bunks and sat lined up in front of the empty frames, all cleared of their contents.

With a jolt of sudden homesickness he had not felt since childhood, Torin remembered that the last picture of his family was in his locker when he was arrested. He wondered if it had been thrown away, and made a mental note to try asking Naela if there were any prisoner effects left in the lockup. 

“This is to be your room for the time being.” Naela pressed her hand to the door at the end of the barracks, unlocking it with another spell. 

Torin blinked. “This is the Captain’s room though....” He followed his guard inside, taking in the space. He had only been inside twice before, and had spent most of the time staring at a particular cracked cinderblock in the wall as the Captain berated him for whatever he had done. 

The space was well over half again the size of his cell, but was still quite small. There was only room for a soldier's bed along the far wall, a writing desk beside the door, and a small dresser to the right. At the end of the bed was another door, revealing a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. 

Naela clasped her hands behind her back, hiding a small grin. “The Queen thought this would be the most convenient accommodation until she could investigate your claims.” She gestured towards the dresser and then the shadowed washroom when Torin turned at her voice. “There are several sets of clothes of various sizes for you to find your proper fit once you have washed.”  

For a moment, Torin couldn’t speak through the sudden lump in his throat. He turned back to survey the room and hide the watering of his eyes from the elf, warmth blooming in his chest. 

This was the kindness those of his own race had abandoned. The simple right to basic living conditions, to proper hygiene, space to move more than two paces and enough light to see and not feel oppressed by constant gloom. To be suddenly provided with it all, even when he could not leave and was still technically a prisoner…. 

‘...So the Queen is not as cold as she puts off. At least, not entirely.’ 

Torin wiped his eyes and breathed deeply before facing Naela again. “Thank you.” Feeling mere words not sincere enough to convey the wealth of emotions now inside him, Torin bowed.

Naela laughed and took the young man by the shoulders to right him. “You don’t need to bow to me, Aldsson!” 

The sound of laughter, after so long, made Torin smile. “Are there any restrictions that I should follow while here?” 

“Ah. Unfortunately, the washroom door must remain open, but I will turn my back when privacy is needed.” Torin nodded. The decreased privacy was not something he was unfamiliar with. He was living, and often showering, with twelve other men before his arrest. And it was not like the cell he was in previously was the most private of places. “If you find yourself needing anything, do not hesitate to ask. I will remain at the door.”

Still smiling, Torin nodded. It took a locking of his muscles to prevent it from turning into a bow again. With another word of thanks, he hurried to the first shower available to him in months, elation bubbling in his chest.

~