#vlandriaek

Vlandriaek says I should take care of myself, that sleeping on the floor is bad for my health, that there's plenty of room next to him, on the bed, to sleep. And I know he's just trying to look after me, in as much as I'm trying to do the same for him. But I can't, don't, won't. He's a father after all, his daughter a bare two years younger than myself... But I'm here, trying to maintain, trying to keep the lines between what I want to be true and reality stiffly drawn. 

It's true, what I told him tonight. I spend much of my time alone. So maybe I don't understand people as clearly as others. I lack practice in divining their motivations and the undercurrents to their thoughts. Or maybe that's just me.

Wandering back to my blankets along the far wall, stubbing out my smoke before curling into them, my head swimming and cheeks burning, confidence obliterated and so out of my element.

Perhaps I always am...

That's my lot in life. I'm strange. I know it. I have trouble acting normal when I'm nervous, like I said to him. The world is a fishbowl, one that I'm always on the outside of, peering in. And most days, nights, afternoons, mornings and all the long minutes in between, that suits me just fine. Acceptance. My best and worst trait. 

Sometimes my oddness bleeds into loneliness, sadness. That twinge in the back of your head that tells you that the people around you are staring at you because of something you said or did that was horribly peculiar. Shrug it off. Keep moving.

Sleep. He's falling out. This place is quiet enough to hear the way his breaths even out and deepen, something soothing in the rhythm. It's comforting though, just to have another person nearby. One that smooths out my thoughts and makes me sink into sleep myself.

"The flesh is willing, but the soul is ruled by villainous mother fuckers into control."

That's what I'd said to him, disbelief running rampant in my veins as he offered up an apprenticeship. Seriously? No. Not real. He's lost a lot of blood and, even though I did ( mostly ) all right in stitching up that gash on his neck, my mind turning the idea of studying under him over and over and over some more, I can't let myself entertain the notion that he, Vlandriaek-fucking-gods-be-damned-Ravendusk, would want to teach me anything. Let alone what he knows. Which is a lot. 

The man's brilliant. I say that not just because I've already envisioned our wedding ( Northrend for sure. Screw that over the top Silvermoon socialite lust to have something big and known and attended by hundreds. I need small, private, the sound of the sea and trees, a land untamed and savage ), but because he's brilliant. He's got this creeptastic interest in pain and anatomy and the limits which a body can be pushed to. Fear. Patience of a saint, if saints enjoyed flaying people, which I assume he does because it seems to happen fairly routinely. The Noose. 

Back to those villainous mother fuckers though, two of whom Vlan would likely like to wrap his hands around and squeeze until breathing was no longer an option. Tyvenn, my half brother, and Revlain, my really-real brother. Follow that duo up with Tyvenn's twin, Velatarina, sinister bitch that she is. I'm pretty sure he's in love with her, my half sister, Vela. I know she's certainly in love with him. Which makes my want of him awkward at best, downright weird and impossible to achieve at worst. My money's on the latter.

Loyalties. Family first. Fel's bells - Vela would kill me if I touched him. I keep reminding myself of this, rather unsuccessfully, as I help him up, tucking my arm around his waist, his own landing across the top of my shoulders ( Heavy. Something delicious in his weight ). In my defense he's not helping any, wrapping himself next to me for support, his voice smoothly intellectual, tempered, trying my everything. Fucking fuck. Just. Fuck. I'd whine that life was unfair, something I'm told that I'm supposed to do at my age, but I have no sense of that, that need for things to be balanced, that want for justice. I mean, as long as that 'justice' means 'getting things your way' right? Because that's all I see and hear when people drag on about their the inequality of their lives.

The flesh is willing. Yes. A hundred-thousand-million times yes. But the soul...

The soul is telling me to shut the fel up and say 'yes'. Screw your duties, your boundaries. Chase. Run. Follow that dream down as far as it will go, spin and give in. 

But I can't. Not just yet. Maybe not ever. Especially not when his every glance or word or motion, the way his does oh anything, makes me weak in the knees. I can't be expected to make major life changing decisions in this state. I think. Uhm...

Sleep. Take him back to the safe house, tuck him in, feed him some painkillers and stay the fel away from him for the rest of the night. I'm warning you Mina, sleep on the damned floor if you have to. But do not crawl under the covers next to him. Yes, I know there's only one bed. No, that's not an excuse for bad behavior. No. No-no-no-no-no. Off limits.

The problem with me is that I like everything that's bad for me.

Booze, cigarettes, strawberry cupcakes, whips ( licorice or otherwise ), that fear that crawls down your spine whenever you're some place dark all alone. 

Vlandriaek.

Ye gods is he pretty, even wounded as he is. Too old for me of course, not that I care about these things but other people seem to frown on it. At forty-seven I get lots of those disapproving looks. Fuck 'em. I do what I want, but not in that 'brat kid you wanna slap' kinda way. More of a 'well isn't she horribly... eccentric?' mode that I'm stuck in, all odd looks and even stranger actions on my end. I suppose if you're gonna be stared at, it best be for a good reason.  

Staring.

Crud, that's what I'm doing right now isn't it? He caught me too. Welp, so much for being smooth Mina, not that you had a real shot at that. Nice to dream though eh? Sure. Keep on dreamin' kid. You have about as much of a chance of getting next to Vlandriaek Ravendusk as... as... Actually, I can't think of anything with remoter odds. 

Good. Awesome. I literally have more of a chance of my skin spontaneously peeling off and walking away without me than making this man look my way. Glad we realized this, had this discussion, made note of what a spectacular failure this is gonna be. Way to gut punch your self esteem, Mina. Go go me.

It's not that I'm without my charms you see. Pretty me, that I am, those big eyes and bubblegum mouth and pale, gold hair that twists into tight corkscrew curls at the end. Feminine where I need to be, toned where it's wanted, perky nose and tits and all... It's just that exactly zero of said charms will work on him. 

But this isn't how I expected to find him, all slashed up, a ripper of a wound across his chest, another at his throat. Shirtless... Hmmm... Vlan-skin, smooth, tight, tempting. Vlan-hair, black as night, shiny as a new coin. Vlan-nearly-losing-consciousness. Crap. Crap-crap-crap. It's from blood loss isn't it? Oh sweet Yogg-saron I hope so, because if he's got an infection I'm totally screwed here. Screwed. Vlan. I can feel my thoughts start to drift. 

Concentrate! Do something!

I fight the urge to try for a fairy-tale kiss, the kind that's supposed to make everything better magically. Hey, hear me out. I inhabit a world where magic is a thing. So are dragons. Dragons for the love of the gods. Are you listening to me? Dragons. Fucking. Dragons. And ditzy, bubble headed fawns that prance through enchanted forests, giggling on about their love of nature. A world where me, a damn elf, seems totally normal. A world where people can turn themselves from blue skinned trolls, or green, hulking orcs or freaking walking-talking cow things into cats and bears. I mean, I get around on a flying chameleon that wears goggles. Giant, flying, chameleon, goggles. There's a string of words for you.

So maybe a kiss would work right?

But I don't kiss him because I'm a huge pussy and instead opt for the sane route of damn near emptying out my bottomless bag ( enchanted bags are the shit ), tossing random item out after random item in search of a vial of purple potion that glows and hums and feels warm to the touch, the only way I'll find it by the way. Tyvenn knows me so well, well enough to understand that if he didn't add a way to for me to figure out what magical substance he created was what by touch alone, I'd never find anything he gives me. Warm. There. Got it. 

Pushing the vial to Vlandriaek's lips, the ones I should have kissed, I tell him to drink. Thankfully he obeys. As the elixir does its thing, its effects making his eyes open over me, clarity returning to them, I kind of secretly exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my gaze wandering out, seeing all the objects I tossed from my satchel on to the floor around us. Like my decoder ring, or my lipstick, or my cigarettes, or my necklace - the one with the broken clasp that I refuse to get rid of, or... my... underwear. Cue internal groan.