All's Fair in Love and War

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱.3 | 𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰

𝙏𝙒: 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙜𝙤𝙧𝙚/𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙

Finrir, Zephyr learned was the name of the warrior who had greeted her at the entrance to the camp, lead her through the small clearing to a leather tent similar to every other they had passed. She could tell Finrir was wary of her, skeptical, but she could tell he was willing to give her a chance. She hoped the others would react similarly.

After a few low words in the Piglin language, Finrir pushed aside the flap and motioned for her to enter. Zephyr's throat tightened with nerves and her back gave an unhelpful twinge, reminding her of all the stitches she'd pulled today. She would just have to endure it, bear with the pain for a little longer.

Wordlessly, Finrir sent her a final glance before abandoning her to return to his post once she had entered the tent. Zephyr's gold eyes raked the room with a lidded stare, exhaustion threatening to take over. The space was sparse, undecorated. A small case lay in the corner of the tent, and a stack of tomes sat beside the furs that had been laid out for a sleeping mat, an armor stand on the other side. Another book rested in the scarred hands of the Lord of the Nether, Technoblade's legs crossed and posture relaxed in a similar dress as she. The book was facedown on his knee now, and it appeared as though he had just finished re-securing his bone mask over his features, pink hair free of its plait and spilling over the pale tusks.

"Now that's a face I didn't expect to see again," Lord Technoblade chuckled, a smirk spreading to reveal small tusks jutting out from his lower jaw. Zephyr dropped painfully to one knee, limbs protesting and back screaming in agony. The sheer force of it drew a rough exhale from her.

"My lord, I apologize for my late arrival. It will not happen again," She choked out, vaguely remembering the streak of dried blood that was most likely still leaking from the corner of her mouth.

"Oh please, I'm sure you're aware that you were being tested. I assume you received some aide from the villagers, though." The Lord's voice was light and some of Zephyr's worry began to dissipate. "Still, your stamina is surprising."

Her stamina was surprising. The blood loss, coupled with lack of food--she hadn't stopped to eat during the ride--and minimal rest should've driven her to the grave long ago. "You are too kind, my Lord."

Technoblade's brow furrowed slightly at her strained tone, and he rose slowly to tower over Zephyr as she remained kneeling before him. "You may rise, Gwyar."

A pause filled the tent as Zephyr tried, and failed, to stand up. Heat flushed to her pale, scraped cheeks as she doubled over, fingers digging into the matted tent floor for stability. "I...I cannot, my Lord," Zephyr nearly whispered, afraid of what punishment her disobedience would elicit.

"Why," The word was a hard demand as the Lord stepped closer, moving to examine her for injury. He drew in a breath at whatever he saw, presumably the large bloodstain seeping through her shirt.

"I am hurt, my Lord. I haven't eaten and...," Zephyr's already shaky voice began to falter.

"And what?" Concern had begun to leak into his deep, gravelly voice.

"I'm tired," she forced out, hair falling over her face.

"That's a lot of blood," he muttered. "Lie down."

Complying without trouble, Zephyr slumped to the rough, matted floor as Lord Technoblade shuffled around above her. Something cold and sharp began to cut away at the coarse linen shirt covering her back. Zephyr winced when he lifted the cloth, and winced again when he began to unwrap the bandages securing the gash. Peeling painfully from her skin, the wrappings fell away, drawing a sharp breath from the Lord above her.