Chapter 4

Celia didn’t pay attention to where her feet were taking her. After what she’d just borne witness to, getting away from there was more important than where she was getting to. She felt trapped, and hot, and the cooling wetness on her thighs was doing nothing to help either feeling. Choosing a door at random, she found herself on a balcony, overlooking the wall and the landscape beyond. A clear breeze, rich with the earthy scents of growth and life, washed over her, and Celia took a grateful breath. She grabbed on to the stone railing, welcoming the cool sensation on her burning skin. Following a lesson she’d learned as an apprentice, she let herself sink, her mind flowing into the shape of the stones beneath her fingers. She had been taught to become one with her weapon, but anything could be an extension of oneself.

For a moment, Celia became the stone. It was what it was effortlessly, without trying, without needing to try. No mage would taint its mind, no soft pink-haired girls with gentle eyes would try to be friendly, no cat-girls with toned bodies would try to... She groaned, her concentration broken. Stone had no urges. Stone didn’t blush when it saw naked flesh, and stone didn’t feel temptation. She tried to shove the images down, but after what had just happened, that was like trying to shove aside the ocean. There was too much to ever begin to move. So instead, she looked out over the railing, trying to find some refuge in the view.

Cair Dwemor was, even Celia had to admit, beautiful. Nestled in a wooded valley with mountains surrounding on three sides, the fortress manor boasted a striking view across the snow-capped range. The woods ended about thirty yards from the fortress walls, replaced with green lawns that looked carefully maintained. With the manor house abutting the back of the fortress, Celia was able to see down the back wall, all the way to the lawn three stories below. Looking at the fall, she drifted back in her thoughts to the previous night, and her attempt with the sword. She shook her head. That wasn't the answer. She would get through this, find a way to break Gella's hold, and get back to her life. Then she could burn those feelings away.

The door behind her swung open, and she turned to see Violet striding to join her with her usual demure grace. The elf said nothing, simply leaning against the railing beside her, looking at the view. The two women just watched the view for a few moments, before Violet broke the silence. 

“I promised I would tell you what I am if you behaved.” Celia blinked, remembering the promise Violet had made in the shower. “Things got a little away from us at breakfast but...” she turned, curtsying to the warrior. “To formally make your acquaintance, I am Lathallen, of the Great House of Drusis.” Rising up, she continued. “Until I entered into My Lady's service, I was what you humans call an assassin.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then lightly shook her head. “There is more to it than that, but I do not wish to bore you with details. Suffice it to say that those arts are why I am so strong and so fast. I was very good at what I did, and My Lady has encouraged me to stay in top form.”

Celia nodded, the pieces slotting into place. She had heard tales of the elven assassins, rumors, mostly. It certainly explained the needle. Then, she frowned. 

“If your name is Lathallen, and she hasn’t taken that away from you, then why does Gella call you...” she trailed off as the elven woman brushed her fingers through her long purple hair, then looked away with a sheepish smile. Celia sighed, shaking her head. 

“Indeed,” Violet returned the sigh, though hers was tinged with affection. “My Lady has, at times, a rather puckish sense of humor.”

“So how did you get... tamed then?” Celia asked casually, leaning her back against the railing. “A lady of a house, serving as a maid?” 

“With My Lady's usual skill and care,” Violet replied, a touch curtly. That kindled Celia's suspicions anew. It must have been plain on her face, because the elven maid shook her head. “Don't misunderstand me, Celia. Joining My Lady's household as her treasure was, and remains, the best choice I could have made. My life as hers is not the part I hesitate on. Before... it’s not a story I wish to tell right now.” Her expression softened. “Perhaps once we get to know each other better, I'll feel ready to share the whole story, in time.” Celia filed that away for later, then shot Violet a sardonic smile. 

“If I stick around that long,” she added with a touch of bravado.

Violet gave Celia an appraising look, similar to the one Gella had turned on her earlier that morning. “I wish you the best of luck in that,” she said, her tone as carefully neutral as Celia had ever seen. “That aside. If you'll follow me, I'll lead you to your room. I imagine you would like a little time to recover from this morning's events?” That stirred up the sensations and memories once more, and Celia shut her eyes for a moment, forcing them back down. “My Lady wanted to extend her apologies, as well.”

Celia froze, then stood up fully, meeting Violet’s eyes in confusion. “She... does?” 

Gesturing for her to follow, Violet walked down the hallway. “Yes. She didn't expect you to react like that, and believes that perhaps a more subdued demonstration of her control over us would have been appropriate.” Stopping at a dark wooden door she pointed at Celia's hand. “The doors are enchanted. This one will unlock and lock at your touch, though both My Lady and myself can do the same. Besides us, this is your private space, if you want it to be.” Again struck by the casual use of magic, Celia touched the door, hearing it click before swinging silently inward.

The room’ bed was easily twice the size of the one she’d slept on in New Gyr, and it had an honest-to-gods silvered mirror that ran from floor to ceiling. Beside that was a dresser, with a larger wardrobe beside it. There was a desk with a strange crystalline device in the corner, paper stacked neatly next to it beside what Celia could only assume was a writing instrument, though it didn’t look like any quill she’d ever seen. And beside that desk was a shelf, lined with more books than she had ever seen in her life. Walking inside with a hint of trepidation, Celia eyed the room while Violet went over to the wardrobe. “This is... all for me?” she asked warily. She had been imagining dank cells, or human sized kennels, or maybe just barracks for Gella's pets... but this? This was nicer than anywhere she’d ever lived or stayed before. Beautiful or not, it’s still a fucking prison cell, she reminded herself. She took a seat on the plush bed. As soon as she had, she knew that, prison cell or not, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from sleeping there. “Please, tell Gella the apology has been received, and I'll be happy to accept it as soon as she takes this damn thing off my neck.” She tugged at the collar, but of course, it wasn’t budging.

Violet turned, giving her a patronizing smile. “I'll relay your message to My Lady.” Gesturing toward the wardrobe, she continued. “I took the liberty of creating a few outfits for you. As you might remember, I’m a deft hand with a needle.” Celia snorted. “We'll get you down to the village soon for a fitting, and the seamstress there can make some more professional fare. And we’ll pay a visit to the cobbler’s as well,” Violet said with practiced efficiency. 

“What’s wrong with my boots?” Celia grumbled.

“Nothing, at least, not in principle. Boots are fine, though not for wearing in the manor itself. But surely those cheap things aren’t comfortable.” Which, Celia had to concede, was a fair point.

Violet pointed out a door to the side of the dresser, and moved to open it, revealing a smaller version of the grand bathroom Violet had washed her in before breakfast. It had a porcelain device that the elf demonstrated as being able to flush away waste, and a small basin with a gemstone control similar to the bath that dispensed water on command.

Celia couldn't help but marvel at these luxuries, things she wouldn't have believed if Violet hadn't shown them to her. That didn’t change that she wanted to leave. Luxury could be a trap like any other, and she had seen fellow swordswomen give up the blade for less. Still, though, she couldn't help but ask. 

“Violet? Is it... worth it?” She regretted asking, regretted exposing even that moment of weakness, but she had to know.

Violet paused, and Celia could see the maid was giving the question due consideration. Which was good. She wouldn’t have trusted an instant answer. “I won't expect you to believe me,” she finally said. “You know well that My Lady's touch is on my mind, and has long since permeated every part of my self. But, yes. Being hers has improved my life dramatically. If I knew what the cost was, I would have made the same choice again.” With that, Violet curtsied, and moved to leave. She paused at the door. “You are free to come and go as you wish, you know. If you want to explore the countryside, there is a beautiful lake east of the village. Lunch will be at noon, dinner at seven. You'll hear the bells chime the hour.” With that, Violet left the room, and Celia was alone for the first time since she’d arrived at Cair Dwemor.

Somehow, being alone was more harrowing than being led around. She wasn't sure what exactly it was, but some part of her felt it just couldn't be this easy to walk around Gella's manor unfettered. She had wandered through the open, spacious halls for minutes, and besides occasional glimpses of Violet on one task or another, nothing at all had happened. 

“I'm leaving now!” she called experimentally. Silence answered her, punctuated by distant birdsong and a faint hum deep beneath her feet she hadn’t noticed before. Well, frustration or not, she knew not to squander the opportunity. She returned to her room to get changed, slipping into a surprisingly practical and surprisingly smooth pair of a cotton shirt and leggings. Swapping her slippers for boots - these really aren’t that comfortable, are they - she looked around the room.

Finding nothing that could be used as a weapon, except maybe the writing tool to poke someone with, she felt a pang of longing for her blade. It was the finest thing she owned, honed and sharpened over years of blood, sweat, and tears. She had forged it - the only piece of metal she’d ever worked - under Krisk’s guidance. She had held the hammer, made every strike, made a sword that was hers, a sword that needed no name beyond being her sword, and ever since had been her constant companion, sword and wielder honed by the same hand. And the last she had seen, it had vanished into some no-place, and it wasn’t clear if it would ever find its way to her hand again. Putting that aside, at least, was easy enough. The sword still existed. She had seen Gella take things from that no-place. The sword wasn’t lost. She reached a finger to her face, brushing the blemished skin there. Focus on what you can do right now, she reminded herself.

Her next stop was to the kitchens. However, though she could enter the now spotlessly clean dining room, the door to the kitchens failed to open at her touch. She added a kick for good measure, but all that earned her was a dull pain in her foot. It probably had the same rules as her room - Tabitha, Gella, and Violet. Well, that meant she couldn’t count on one of the long knives she’d seen to stand in for a proper sword. 

Moving out to the main hall, she spotted gray hair behind a doorway and stopped. She could ask Gella for access to the kitchens, claiming she wanted to make herself an extra bit of food. Or she could even try asking for her sword back. But apology or no, Gella was the enemy. Asking the mage for anything would only put her own plans in jeopardy, and probably further whatever the woman was scheming too. So she ignored the sight, instead walking out the main doors into the morning sun.

Her first stop was to the barracks looking building she had seen before. To her surprise the door opened at her touch. The inside smelled faintly of sweat and weapon oil and leather. Comforting smells, for a warrior far from home. She found a long, low room, with a fireplace on one side and a small cooking area that was made of the same strange materials as the one in the manor. Beyond that were a number of small beds with trunks at the foot - sleeping space for the soldiers, she assumed - as well as a large door at the end that proclaimed itself as Damian’s room. Those things all felt familiar, sleeping in close quarters with a commanding officer sleeping just aside. She tested his door, but it was locked, and she hadn’t expected to be able to enter. There was another door that failed to open at her touch, so she pressed her ear to the wood. Once she heard the faint sound of water splashing on stone, she decided that it was probably locked for a reason. 

Standing there in the middle of the barracks, Celia realized she hadn't seen a single soldier, or so much as a guard. Gella had mentioned that Damian was on a hunt, but surely he wouldn't take every soldier the manor had along with him? That went against everything she knew about defending a position like this. Maybe Gella and her magic could be a substitute, and Violet was trained to fight, but defending an entire manor complex seemed beyond just the two of them, no matter how effective they were individually. That drew her mind to Tabitha and Lauren. Lauren was a divine priest, and could channel magic that way, but as a priestess of Shala, Lady of Mercy, she would be forbidden from wielding a weapon. That left Tabitha, and Celia grimaced as she realized she never checked if the cat-girl could fight. She certainly had the body for it.

Moving along the beds, she counted ten. So ten soldiers, plus Damian, Gella, Violet, and perhaps Tabitha, with Lauren to support them with healing. A formidable force, especially for a location as defensible as this one. Then her eyes were drawn to the trunks at the foot of each bed. She didn’t keep her hopes up, knowing it was a long shot they would be unlocked, and thus wasn’t devastated when the trunks failed to open. That left the little kitchen area. There were a number of small forks and cooking knives, but nothing that would have made for a serviceable weapon. Feeling disappointed, but not defeated, she moved on to the armory next to the barracks. 

It was a work of art. The place was disorganized, with racks and buckets strewn everywhere, but there was a strange logic to the chaos, and the area in front of the massive forge was clear. The room was sweltering, the forge’s heat oppressive even from across the room. Sword blanks filled one wall, in a grand variety of shapes, sizes, and configurations. Celia forgot the situation for a moment, forgot where she was. She was back in a tight, cramped forge, her mentor standing behind her as he guided her hand. Both her mentor and this smith’s master had made more esoteric weapons, too. Spiked chains, battleaxes, halberds, all glinting in the forgelight. On instinct, she reached out, touching a blade that looked much like her own... 

“Careful there. Them soldiers get touchy when someone that ain't them touches their kit.”

Whirling around Celia turned to find a towering man raising an eyebrow at her. His hair was long and braided, and he was dressed in workman's clothes, with a leather apron. “Then again, I sees the way you look at them,” he chuckled, He offered a hand. “Daniel, I'm the smith. Ye need anything repaired, sharpened, or crafted? I'm yer bloke.” Celia took the offered hand and shook it, slightly in awe. Even the calluses were like Krisk’s. 

“Celia Evergleam. I'm...” she trailed off. 

“I knows what ye are, least what it seems. If'en you ain't one o' her ladyship's yet, she got ye marked for one.” He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. “Would ye be the owner of this armor, then?”

Celia had wanted to correct Daniel then and there, that she wasn't Gella's and she never would be, but the sight of her armor on the stand he pulled out of a corner pushed those thoughts away. Her armor had been cleaned, polished to a mirror sheen. The leather had been oiled, and the straps even looked like they had been mended. Looking around the stand, she gasped when she saw her blade and shield as well, and went to grab it, giving it a few short motions to check its weight. It was her sword, no doubt, brighter than it’d ever been since she and Krisk had made it. 

“My...” she took a shuddering breath, turning to Daniel. “You. You fixed it all up?” 

The giant of a man nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “With his lordship out, and all the heralds with em, I had little else to do. Ye keep good care o' your kit, lass.” Celia frowned at that. 

“You got everything polished and cleaned this morning?”

“Oh, aye,” the smith chuckled. “I mayn’t understand half of what her ladyship goes on about, but the oils and tinctures she provides work a right treat.” Settling himself on a bench and fishing a pipe from his apron, Daniel nodded toward Celia's sword. “Ole Larion should be out in the practice yard 'bout now, if ye feel like testing my work a bit.”

A horrible thought crossed her mind. “Daniel,” she said, not looking at the smith. “Did Gella have you do anything to my blade?” Her voice was tense, like a bowstring about to snap. If Gella had tainted this, her gift, her blade, her soul as a warrior... she paused with her heart in her throat, waiting, dreading the answer. 

“Aside from cleaning and sharpening it, ye mean?” Celia nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak. “Nah. None but meself's touched yer blade since I got it. Wouldnae feel right doin that t’a piece of work like this anyhow.”

She wanted to relax, and wanted to believe him, but she had just been reminded. For all that Daniel seemed to be removed from Gella and her manipulations, he still worked for her. Worse yet, she realized, was that she was letting his way of speech distract her. Just because he spoke with a drawl wouldn't stop him from working magic. He might be affecting the drawl, or using tools Gella had prepared beforehand. She had a choice in front of her. Take a chance that Gella had indeed put some manner of spell on her gear, or refuse the things that had borne blood and battle with her. The need for some remnant of her pride outweighed her caution, and she walked out the door to the courtyard. 

She wrapped her fingers around the rough leather of the sword grip, and fell into a sword form with the ease of practice. In that instant the strangeness of the manor, the collar on her neck, and the incident at breakfast seemed like another life. She was Celia, warrior of her own blade. She felt her inner flame spark to life, renewed. 

She glanced around for the ‘Ole Larion’ that Daniel had mentioned, and found an elf with snow-white hair and a sword in a scabbard at his side sitting on a chair. 

“Daniel said I could have a spar with you,” she called. He nodded in response, standing up, pulling out his own sword with slow, unhurried movements. Did he really send me to fight against some old -

She froze, eyes wide as he moved, swift fluid grace that she’d only seen in the greatest of warriors underscoring his motions, to tap his - dulled, she realized - sword against her neck. Then, he withdrew, sheathing the sword with another slow, deliberate movement. Celia slumped to the ground, eyes wide. How... how had he...

She jumped to her feet, and the elf turned, giving her an appraising look. “Again,” she demanded.

This time, she was ready. He was fast, yes, faster than she was, but she could still react. She brought up her sword, letting the elf’s weapon slide off hers with a ringing of steel, then converted that movement into a slash downwards. Too late, she realized she might not want to be using lethal force in a practice bout, as her sword swung down towards his torso. But he didn’t seem fazed. He stepped to the side, fluid as ever, and tapped his sword’s tip to Celia’s collarbone. The interaction had taken only seconds. 

“Again,” she demanded immediately. And he smiled.

Six more times they fought, and six more times, she was soundly defeated. After the second, she held up a hand, then retrieved her shield before continuing. After that, he had started to offer pointers, tips on what to do as she fought him. Each time, she did a little better, but each time, Larion simply smiled, finding the flaw in her stance and exploiting it mercilessly.

Finally, she was left, panting, lying on the sand of the training ground.

“How did that not draw blood,” she complained. “I got you, that time! A good gash down the arm. It cut, I know it did!”

He smiled warmly at her. “Magic.”

“Of course it is,” she groaned. “Of course it is.” He offered a hand, and she took it gratefully, hauling herself up to her feet.

“Impressive, lass!” Daniel called, having left the forge to watch the bout at some point. “Right impressive! Them heralds will be back on the morrow, and with a showin like that, even his lordship will want a bout or two!”

The noon bell chimed and Celia paused, looking toward the manor. Violet had told her lunch was at noon, but hadn't said that she needed to attend. Gella would be there, along with Tabby and Lauren, certainly. The mage had apologized, or at least had sent Violet to apologize on her behalf, but... She shook her head and turned away. It was still too raw. Better to retreat for now and come back fully fortified. That made sense, a solid plan of engagement that let her ignore the emotions still swirling around her mind. She would need to eat, certainly, but the manor couldn’t be the only place for food. Violet had mentioned there was a village...

Walking toward the now open front gate, Celia felt a twinge of nervousness, and absently ran her finger around her silver collar. Violet had said she could come and go, and there were no guards at the gate. There might be arcane traps, but would she really have gone to the trouble of setting those up just to send Celia into them? She paused at the threshold, looking down the road. About half a mile or so were the front gates of a walled village. The woods surrounded the path, but it looked both well maintained and frequently used. Taking a deep breath, she took a determined step across the path, fully expecting something to stop her despite her justifications to the contrary. Her foot landed on the cobblestone, and that was all. Celia froze, waiting, but all she heard was faint birdsong and wind rustling the trees. So she took another step, then another, and before she knew it she was full-on running down the path.

Her body protested, still exhausted from the spars, but Celia pushed her body anyway for the sheer joy of freedom. A quiet part of her mind reminded her that Gella wouldn't simply let her walk away, and that this wasn't true freedom from the mage. A much louder part was bursting with confidence. She had her blade back, her warrior’s soul, and with every moment Cair Dwemor was receding behind her. Moments later, she arrived at the village gate, sweating and a little short of breath, but still feeling elated. 

“Whoa there, lass. I saw you damn near bolt from her Ladyship's manor. Is anything to worry about?” a male voice startled her out of her reverie. Glancing up she saw a young man in chainmail with a bow on his back, looking concerned. 

“No, no, nothing like that,”' Celia called back. “Just... just enjoying a run.” 

The young man chuckled, relaxing. “Well, you enjoy your run then, lass!”

The village, which Celia learned was called Wand's Reach, because of course it was, was a surprisingly bustling community. It was mostly human, with a fair mix of elves and dwarves, all mixing and mingling. What Wand's Reach did not have was the stench of so many people living together. New Gyr was a much larger city, she knew, but Wand's Reach still had a fair number, and the only smells in the air were those of cooking meat and fresh pastry. She quickly found the answer. There was a river flowing along the west side of town, but, clearly not content with that, Gella had paid to build an honest-to-gods bathhouse as well. She took a peek inside, and was altogether unsurprised to find a familiar clear gemstone beside the intake for the baths. 

Indeed, the more Celia walked through Wand's Reach, the more she began to feel that if Gella really were an evil wizard, she was doing an astonishingly poor job of it. Everyone she spoke to about her had nothing but genuine praise for the mage and her brother. Even the ones who did grumble about having a mage as their lady did it without much bile.

The collar earned her a few remarks as well. She was addressed as ‘one of Gella’s’ so often that by the tenth person she simply gave up trying to correct them. Even before that, they would listen to her arguments and offer a token condolence at her capture. Celia was willing to put it up to Gella having somehow charmed every single person in Wand's Reach, before her more rational mind pointed out how impossible that was. A village would always have people coming and going, so not everyone could be vetted. Aside from that, none of the townsfolk she met had any glowing eyes or engraved runes, though Tabitha showed that wasn’t a guaranteed way to check. So she even asked a few directly. 

“Does Gella keep you all charmed?” she asked a couple of passersby, and only received confused looks and shaken heads as response. The girls at the manor had known they were under a spell, and were practically eager to proclaim it. All impressions were that Gella really was as good of a liege as she seemed.

It was with tired feet and a confused heart that Celia stopped at the inn in town, a charmingly decorated place called the Grinning Cat. The matron, a plump older woman with a crop of graying hair, insisted on her having a bowl of rabbit soup. Celia protested she had no money to pay, the older woman had just laughed and shaken her head. 

“With all the good our Ladyship does for us, the least we could do is feed her treasures as they need.” After she had bustled away, leaving Celia with a bowl of soup and a sizable piece of bread, she heaved a sigh. The soup was delicious and the bread went down well, but being counted among her ‘treasures’ was a harder thing to swallow.

After finishing her meal, Celia wandered around, and found herself sitting at the fountain in the town square, idly watching the water pour from the artful sculpture while she collected her thoughts. Cair Dwemor was, no doubt, luxurious beyond compare, and with Daniel and Larion there, had everything she could ever want to train as a swordswoman. Lauren and Tabby were both friendly, and Violet seemed to care in her own way. And loath as she was to admit it, even Gella was kind and fascinating, in her own perverse way. 

Celia leaned forward, then frowned as her collar caught the light in the fountain’s reflection. It was so easy to forget the cost of all those luxuries. Her mind drifted back to that day four years ago, just at the edges when she could just smell the smoke, and she shuddered. She... they... everyone there had been free. Free to work the land, free to move, to travel, and... she felt the hot prickle of tears again, and shoved the tangled knot of memories back. That, at least, was something she could still do, even if Gella had broken through her other mental defenses. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then let her gaze fall back on her reflection in the water. 

“I'm not a slave,” she whispered firmly.

She held her own gaze defiantly. If she gave in, then she lost. She needed to keep looking for resources. To escape. Just then, she noticed the sound of metal being hammered. The village had its own blacksmith? Of course it did. Daniel probably only served the inhabitants of the manor. The collar around her neck marked her as part of Gella's household, and that had gotten her a free meal. It was time to see what else she could get with it.

The blacksmith and the local general store were, in fact, located across the street from one another. While the smith, a human male with short cropped blonde hair, wasn't willing to even touch Celia's collar with his tools, the shopkeeper - the smith's brother, and much the same in build save for much longer hair - had been considerably more helpful. It took only a slightly distorted tale of her wanting to explore the woods, and she had a rucksack with all the things she would need for even camping out the night, if it came to that. Feeling slightly guilty for essentially stealing, she made a mental note to send money for the goods - anonymously - once she was free of Gella's grasp.

Feeling as prepared as she could be for trying to outrun an enemy such as Gella, Celia left town toward the forest. 

The afternoon sun was a pleasant warmth, and a breeze from the hills kept it feeling refreshing instead of sweltering. As she reached the treeline, she heard what sounded like a flute playing. Was someone else in the forest? She had planned to follow the road that led around the edge of the woods, but the music seemed so intriguing... As she walked, the music of the flute followed her, carried on the breeze that rustled the trees. It really is a lovely song, she thought, not even noticing her steps carrying her into the forest itself. The canopy of leaves and branches made a patchwork of light and shadow, dappling the ground and growing deeper as Celia followed the music. A part of her thought she was going in too far, but she was fine. She was a warrior, and she had her blade back at her hip.

After a few more minutes of wandering, she slipped into a sheltered glade. Soft meadow grass carpeted the open space, and a few long fallen rocks ringed a tiny fire. The music was coming from a dark-haired woman playing a wooden flute with considerable skill. The tune was a light, bouncy thing, easy to follow and utterly fascinating to listen to. The woman looked just older than Celia herself, and had her eyes closed, apparently focused on the song. Celia took a step forward to tap the flutist on the shoulder, but it would be rude to interrupt such a lovely song, wouldn’t it? So she sat on the grassy floor with her back to one of the boulders, content to wait with a soft, happy smile on her lips.

After some time - Celia had stopped keeping track - the woman opened her eyes and smiled at the warrior. “Oh, my!' she said in a lovely lilting accent. “I seem to have attracted a lovely maiden.” Her eyes glittered invitingly. “Would you give me your name?” Celia nodded, even though something in her felt this was wrong, this was off. It would be far worse to be rude. 

“Celia Evergleam,” she responded easily. Something was different, as soon as she finished speaking, though she couldn’t place what. The dark haired woman smiled, and Celia couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Thank you,” she nearly purred. After a moment Celia shifted, uncomfortable under the extended attention. 

“What's your name?” she asked, trying to break the awkwardness. 

“Hmmm,” the dark-haired woman mused. “I think Mary works best. It's not my real name, but that doesn't bother you a bit, Celia Evergleam.”

It didn't. Mary didn't want to tell Celia her full name, and that was perfectly fine. Lots of people had their reasons not to use their real name. “It's nice to meet you, Mary,” Celia said, still feeling a little odd, though she wasn’t sure why. “Sorry for just barging in, if you -” 

Mary held up her hand. “Nothing to be sorry about. Celia Evergleam, you were just fascinated by the music.”

Mary was right. The music of the flute was still a soft melody in the back of her mind, and the skill needed to weave such a melody was indeed fascinating. Looking at the flute, and back up into Mary's eyes, Celia blushed. “Will you... play it some more? I really liked it...” 

Mary giggled softly and nodded. “In a bit, in a bit. I want to know all about you, though. You don't need to keep anything a secret from me, Celia Evergleam.”

Celia nodded her head. “Oh! I mean, we just met, but...” Why would she want to keep anything from Mary? For a moment she thought of Gella saying something as silly as not needing to keep anything from her - and of course she’d refuse - but this was Mary asking, not Gella. “You're right, Mary, I don't need to keep anything from you. What did you want to know?” She shifted a bit closer, so she could more easily talk to Mary.

The dark-haired woman reached over and ran her fingers over Celia's collar. The warrior instinctively recoiled, but that just made Mary chuckle. “It's alright. Celia Evergleam, you don't mind at all when I touch you.” Something about that seemed wrong to Celia, but she couldn’t place what it was. Sure, other people reaching over and just touching her wouldn't be fine, and she very much would care, but, well... Mary was Mary. It’s not as if her touch doesn’t feel good, Celia thought, shifting slightly to bare more of her neck to the dark-haired woman's fingertips. “This is Gella's handiwork,” Mary said softly, gently running her finger all the way around the collar. “Fastened with magecraft, too. Are you one of her treasures?”

That prompted a moment of silence from the warrior. Mulling it over, she eventually shook her head. “Gella wants to break me,” she said confidently, “but I'm not going to be one of her treasures.” As she spoke, she craned her neck out for Mary to softly stroke down. 

“Oh? And why is that?” Mary asked, amused. 

“Because I'm not going to trade away my freedom for anything!” Celia said firmly. 

“Oh, dear, of course not. I can see that,” Mary said, running her fingers along the callused hands long hours of swordplay had given Celia. “I can tell you're a proud, free woman.” Her questing fingers trailed up Celia's arms over the definition of her muscles. “Such a strong body. You don't feel any shame about showing it off, Celia Evergleam.”

Celia gave Mary a confused look, but said nothing more. In truth, she was proud of her body. She honed it everyday, as Krisk had taught her. One of his maxims had been that the sword was useless without the warrior to wield it. She had to treat her body just as she would treat her blade, with proper exercise, proper rest, and proper food. True, she had to deny herself some pleasures, but the rewards were well worth it. Even her scars she wore with pride, proof she had survived the battles that had given them to her. 

“I want to see all of your body, Celia Evergleam,” Mary said, breaking the warrior out of her reverie. Celia simply nodded with a small smile. It wasn't like she enjoyed showing off her body or anything, but Mary wanted to see, and there wasn’t any shame in showing her.

After a moment, Celia was naked in the firelight, relaxing on the meadow grass. “Oh, that won't do at all, dear. I insist you come here and sit on my lap, Celia Evergleam. You don't want grass stains on your skin.” That made perfect sense to the warrior. With nothing on, she could get tiny green marks on her legs. Quite why she wouldn't want that when she had spent several nights without so much as a blanket to lay on didn't even cross her mind. She stood up and settled into Mary's lap. The dark haired woman was very accommodating, wrapping her arm around the warrior so she could stay stable. “My husband should be back soon. He was just fetching some wine. You don't mind one bit if he admires or touches your body, Celia Evergleam.”

Celia nodded absently at that. It wasn't as if she were trying to get attention like this, and if Mary married this man then he obviously could look at her and touch her as much as he wanted. She didn't mind at all. A moment later, there was the sound of moving underbrush. The man, presumably Mary's husband, swept his own long, dark hair over his broad shoulders, hoisting a sack in the air. 

“I'm back, my turtledove...” He stopped at the edge of the firelight and looked Celia up and down before letting out a loud cheerful laugh. “Oh, my dear wife, what lovely little mortal have you ensnared?” He said boisterously before sitting down besides the pair.

Confusion flowed over Celia's face, and she turned to Mary. “Mortal?” she asked curiously, then broke off into laughter as Mary's fingers trailed feather soft down her ribs. 

“She seems to be a little ticklish, oh husband of mine,” Mary grinned. Looking back into Celia's eyes Mary giggled happily. “Oh my, but you are a curious one. My husband and I are fey.” Celia’s expression froze. She knew little of the Fair Folk, but what she did know was that you had to guard your true, real name at all costs. As long as they didn’t hear it from your lips, they couldn’t do anything to you.

Mary’s face fell, and she looked concerned. “Oh, stars, I didn't mean to frighten you. You don't remember a single thing about the fey, Celia Evergleam.” She passed her hand over Celia's head, who was just about to scoff at... at... 

She blinked, looking into Mary's eyes. “I was just really scared about something,” she confessed, feeling adrenaline pumping through her body for no reason she could discern. Mary began to run her hand comfortingly up and down Celia's bare back, which felt wonderful. She hadn’t had a comforting touch like that in far too long. She leaned into it, and smiled happily. 

“Oh! Someone likes that,” Mary said indulgently. “Well, if you can't remember why you were scared, it couldn't have been very scary, right?”

“Stands to reason,” the male fae agreed from her side. “Oh, and what was your name, again?”

“Celia Evergleam,” she dutifully repeated. 

Smiling, he carefully slipped his hands under Celia and lifted her into his own lap. Smooth strong hands wrapped around her body and Celia let out an interested “oh!” before relaxing against his shirt clad chest. After a moment an annoying prickle of a thought prodded her. She could have sworn Mary had been wearing a simple cotton dress, but she now wore a resplendent robe, dyed in flowing blues and greens. Her hair had lengthened as well, cascading down in a shiny black waterfall. She looks amazingly beautiful, Celia thought with a smile. Something nagged at her that she ought to be pushing that feeling aside.

“Something on your mind, little mortal?” the male faerie asked good-naturedly, cupping Celia's breast and toying with her nipple. That felt wonderful, but for a moment, that nagging feeling was much much stronger. 

“Just remembering how the last time someone touched my breasts, I didn't like it. Well, I mean, I did, it felt really good the way Tabby touched me, but I just...” she sighed. “It's a lot.” She made no move to push the man's hand away. She didn't mind him touching her at all. “Oh, and I was confused about Mary's clothes. They seemed to change just now. Yours did too, actually. You're wearing a robe now.”

“Well it's no good letting all that fester up there,” he said cheerfully, tapping Celia's forehead with his free hand. “You mortals let so many things sit up there. Thinking, thinking, thinking! All the time, you are.” Reaching over to the sack, he brought a fine glass bottle chased with silver out. He tugged the cork free, and the glade was all at once perfumed with the scent of berries and spices. “As for clothes...” he waved a hand dismissively. “Damned nuisances most of the time. We just throw on glamours and call it a day.” He looked over at Mary. “Dash it all if you don’t look stunning, though, turtledove. What are you calling yourself for her, anyways? I always had a fondness for Isabella, you know.”

Mary rolled her eyes and smiled at her husband. “I went with Mary. And now we'll need a name for you as well.” She looked at the warrior, who was resting comfortably. “Before my husband gets you drunk, do you have any suggestions on names for him?”

Celia looked up into the male faerie’s face and thought for a moment. “Samuel,” she said firmly. “He looks like a Samuel.” The newly christened Samuel laughed boisterously. 

“Capital! Samuel I shall be. But now, as to the manner of all the thoughts which are chasing each other like squirrels in your mind...” he proffered the bottle to Celia. “Drink and tell us all your worries. Better to let them run around out here then up there,” he said sagely.

“Oh, I don't drink. I need to keep my wits clear in case there's danger!” the naked warrior woman chirped from her perch on Samuel's lap. Something about the situation prompted a confused sensation. For a moment she worried that something in her collar might be affecting her mind. Let's see, she thought to herself. I'm naked in front of Mary and Samuel. I’m sitting on their laps, and I’m telling Mary anything she asks. Nothing wrong there. She smirked triumphantly. “You're a tricky one, Samuel, but I'm not going to spill every little secret just because you asked!”

Samuel let out a pleased bark of laughter. “When she's right, she's right, Mary,” he said knowingly. Mary nodded along with an equally knowing smile. 

“Well, you wouldn't be telling him,” Mary explained, “you would be telling me. The fact of it is, though, you would love to share your secrets with both of us, Celia Evergleam.” 

Celia nodded along. A weight shifted, and suddenly, her mind felt a lot lighter, as though she had cast off some sort of chains. Could she just... She looked up at Mary and Samuel. “Is it... okay? I don't want to just dump everything out onto you.” 

Samuel looked confused, but Mary gave him a pointed look, and he started nodding encouragingly. “Well, that's what the wine is for!” he chuckled.

“Well I don't drink, like I said,” Celia repeated firmly. 

“Just take a sip, Celia Evergleam. It will go straight to your head, Celia Evergleam,” Mary said firmly. “You know taking a sip doesn't count, Celia Evergleam.” Something about what Mary had said struck her as odd, but she dismissed it. They had been such wonderful hosts... she brought the bottle to her lips. It would be rude not to indulge them. And it wasn’t as though just a sip counted as drinking. She let herself take a small sip, marveling at the taste. It was rich, and cool, and sweet on her tongue, and filled her mouth with a pleasant warmth. When she swallowed, that warmth seemed to drift upward and diffuse, filling her mind with a delightful haze. She giggled, relaxing.

“That's right. You're just a silly drunk girl, Celia Evergleam,” Mary said from her side, and the warm cloudy fog blooming in her mind proved her right. The world swayed softly, and Samuel was so kind in holding her upright. She flushed, and that alone brought a silly giggle to her lips. This morning, with Violet's needle, the feeling had been nearly identical aside from the paralysis. Drunk people weren't paralyzed, and she had seen drunk people move about. Celia was a silly drunk girl, she knew, so she could walk if she needed to.

“You don't slur when you're drunk, Celia Evergleam. You can understand us and speak perfectly clearly, Celia Evergleam,” Mary continued, and Celia felt the fog shift around a bit. She was still feeling drunk and relaxed, her cares and worries an eternity away, and the peal of laughter from Samuel lightly tickling her side was obviously the act of a silly girl. But the fog lifted from other parts of her mind, letting Mary and Samuel's voices in nice and clear. 

“Go on then. Celia Evergleam, spill every one of your secrets.” Mary encouraged.

“Alright!” Celia said happily, leaning back as Samuel's hand returned to playing with her breast. “Well, Gella captured me, right? And I should hate her, but she's actually really really really pretty, and weirdly nice for an evil mage! She has this way about her, this, just...” she sighed happily, both from the memory and from the fingers now tugging at her nipple. “So, I want to leave, because I don't want to be hers, but I also don't want to leave! And it's confusing me.” Suddenly, her back arched, and she blinked slowly up at Samuel. “Oh, wow. Umm. You're really making me feel good.”

She gasped, as if remembering something. “Right! Then there’s the whole sex thing!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I swear, everyone in that house is ready to fuck at the drop of a hat!” 

Samuel laughed cheerfully at that. “Nothing wrong with a good tumble when the mood strikes.” He tickled her side again, and she giggled happily. “Especially with an enticing little vixen like yourself.”

Celia shook her head rapidly, giggling again at the resulting dizzy spell. “No, no, no. Sex? It’s the worst! You get all wrapped up in someone, right? They're in you, and you're in them, and you feel on top of the world, and then you aren't focused! Anything could get past you!” she said with a huff, ignoring the indulgent chuckles of the fae. “I mean, I would love to just go with it! You wouldn't believe how gorgeous they all are,” Celia said, slipping her hand between her thighs and lightly stroking her pussy. “Like, Violet, right? She has this oh-so-fucking-calm attitude, but I bet she's a screamer in bed. Then Tabby, the fucking gods couldn't craft a body like that, and!” she emphasized, earning a chuckle from her hosts. “And she walks around nearly naked! Oh! And Lauren, she has this dreamy giggly silliness, and I bet she gives the best hugs!”

Mary looked over at Celia with a warm, concerned smile. “Well, why not just ask one of these lovely girls to share your bed? They all sound willing, and... you clearly seem a little pent up.” 

Celia shook her head as she continued touching her body. Pent up certainly described it. What happened this morning had been the first time in a long, long time. She couldn't remember the last time even playing with her own body had felt this good. After shutting her eyes tight for a moment and shuddering with a jolt of pleasure, she looked over at Mary with what she meant to be an accusatory glare, but ended up looking more like pleading. “I told you, I gotta be on my guard! Gella wants to get inside my head and swirl my thoughts around! That's the fucking price!” she said far more forcefully than she had intended. “For all of it! If Gella had just said ‘oh, Celia, you're such a good warrior, can I bring you to my fucking palace and make you my consort and show you a swordmaster that has been looking for a challenge and a smith who can make your armor better than new and luxuries beyond your wildest dreams and three other gorgeous girls that can make your pussy drip,’” she paused, gasping for air, “then I would have said yes in a heartbeat! But no! No, no, no, I have to let her put ropes in my brain and make me love being hers no matter what, and gods alone know what else!”

She let out a shuddering sob, grabbing on to Samuel tightly. He stopped in surprise, but she was already close, and with a gasp she came hard, her grip relaxing. After a moment, she relaxed fully, giggling again. “There are a few other things, but they’re less important, and that's what's really been bothering me,” she said happily. “Thanks. You two are great listeners.”

Mary and Samuel were quiet for a long moment. That was a novelty. The few times she had succumbed to her body's demands for pleasure before, it had been strictly for clearing her head and getting on with things. Laying back and simply enjoying the feeling was practically new.

“Celia,” Mary began slowly, “if I am correct, then your main issue with your current predicament is Gella’s insistence on magically controlling you?” Celia nodded, a tear coming to her eye. Mary gestured towards the small fire, and it leapt up, suddenly awash in shifting colors and hues. Mary made a gesture to her husband, who passed the sated girl back into her lap. “Well, Celia, I have a way to help you with that fear. It's not magical in the slightest, and it won’t control you. All you need to do is relax and listen to my voice. You love listening to my voice, don’t you?”

Celia nodded, and her fogged mind was quick to latch onto the lilting fae voice. “Then just watch the flames,” Mary said softly, caressing Celia’s tummy slowly, up and down, with one hand, snaking the other between her legs. Distantly, Celia felt slender fingers brushing her folds, and she murmured in pleasure. “They’re so pretty, and so simple. Just color, flickering, fading, and rising to life,” Mary whispered.

It was easy for the warrior to follow along. She was right. The flames were so simple to watch, but if she looked deeper... “There’s a pattern to them,” Mary said, confirming her thoughts. “A strange logic, one that’s so fascinating to watch, but so hard to grasp.” She continued playing with Celia’s pussy, just enough that it was noticeable, but not enough to distract her from that pattern, which she felt she could almost see... “But you don’t need to see the pattern to enjoy the flames,” Mary continued. “It will happen regardless, flowing by. All you have to do is let yourself be carried by that logic, and watch the pattern, letting yourself sink into its flow. Everything else, your worries, your concerns, can just... fade away, for the moment.” 

And it did. It felt like a spell, but there was a different quality to it, a strange lucidity to the way she watched the pattern. And Mary had assured her it wasn’t magic, and it wouldn’t control her. And she could trust Mary, right? She hoped so. So she let her worries fade, just as the faerie had said... “And listen to my voice. It’s so comforting, isn’t it?” Celia nodded. “So wonderful. It feels so good, so wonderful, to listen, to watch, and to be absorbed in the pattern. You can just relax, leaving all your worries behind for the moment. Let me handle things for you.” That... sounded nice. To just... forget her worries, for a while. Gods knew she had a lot of them.

“Now, close your eyes, Celia. You can still picture that pattern, flowing, changing, even without seeing it, but your eyes and mind can rest.” Gratefully, she did as Mary said, letting her eyes flutter closed. It felt wonderful to rest, with the only sensations that mattered, the light touch of the faerie’s hands and the soft sound of her voice.

“How do you feel, dear?” Mary asked kindly. It took time, to arrange words in the logic of the fire, but the pattern would find its way eventually. 

“Good,” she sighed to the rhythm of the blues and greens. “Relaxed.”

She felt a hand stroking her hair, and mumbled something incoherent with the violets, sighing with the simple comforting pleasure of the touch. She was safe. She had no worries.

They would take care of her.